


in the race of life

by ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Post-Iron Man 1, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Hopeful Ending, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Clint Barton, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Outsider, Plot for CA:TWS will be relevant from Chapter 5 onwards, inconsistent chapter length
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding/pseuds/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding
Summary: At the end of Iron Man 1, Tony Stark walks into his Malibu home and finds not Nick Fury, but Alexander Pierce waiting for him.Yes, THAT Alexander Pierce.It changes everything.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Pepper Potts & James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my stuff is unbeta-ed. Please do me a solid and point out any grammar mistakes in the comments.
> 
> XD

**Prologue - 2008**

Adrenaline buzzes through his veins, making his nerves sing. Not even his friends’ disapprobation – Happy’s closed-lip reproach, the subtle unhappy pinch around Pepper’s eyes, Rhodey’s not-so-subtle and vocal rebuke – can bring him down from his exhilarated high.

Christine Everhart’s sour moue. The reporters leaping to their feet. Camera lights flashing.

_“I am Iron Man.”_

Tony, a self-proclaimed contrary bastard, has never been one to do as he was told. Especially not when the one doing the telling is as shady and as presumptuous as Agent Agent G-man. Tony has had it up to _here_ with people jerking him around on puppet strings, telling him to jump, and expecting him to respond with _how high_.

Not after Obie –

 _Stane_ , Tony reminds himself. **_Stane._**

He shoos Pepper away to handle his latest PR disaster, blows off Rhodey, then loses Happy in a crowd of swarming cub reporters. It’s a dick move. But right now, Tony wants more than anything to be alone. He already has a few new ideas he wants to try out for the armor. He wants to immerse himself in a month-long creating binge. He wants JARVIS and his bots and his lab.

Who needs people anyway?

Nasty, backstabbing people.

Not Tony.

Human interaction is for _lesser_ species. Tony has now evolved beyond that.

The car slides smoothly to a halt with nary a purr. The lights are on in his Malibu home, warm and inviting. Getting out, Tony brushes himself down and lets his shoulders slump with minute exhaustion. His face feels like tenderized meat, and his skin itches from the makeup.

He should’ve gone with his first instinct and put the jacuzzi in his lab. Never mind JARVIS and his ‘risk of electrocution’.

A little bit of electricity never killed anybody.

Except for Obie. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

 _Stane_ , Tony corrects himself again.

He sheds his suit jacket, carelessly yanks his tie loose, and freezes in the middle of rolling up his shirt sleeves when he catches sight of the man sitting in his living room, bold as brass, returning Tony’s glare with an affable look.

“Dr. Stark. Or Iron Man now?” Alexander Pierce rises smoothly to his feet, offering a handshake. “Big fan of your work. Shame we had to meet like this. But really, it’s urgent.”

Tony doesn’t take the offered hand. “JARVIS,” he says. “Did the Secretary of Defense break and enter my house?” Silence. Tony waits, then looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS?”

**Present Day - 2011**

The first time Tony and Natasha fall into bed together, it almost happens by accident.

Walking into Tony Stark’s bedroom is like stepping inside a hotel suite – no personal touches, no extravagant art pieces, or expensive knick-knacks. Not even a framed picture. Just the California King bed, white un-patterned sheets, wood flooring, and a wall made entirely of glass – so it almost seems like there’s nothing separating them from the dark seascape and the open air of the glittering night sky. The ocean is a rippling pane of dark glass, moonlight turning each individual wave silver.

Minimalist. Open-air concept.

Romantic too, but probably not for Natasha’s benefit. She suspects that Tony had a completely different redhead in mind when he designed this place.

Tony sits on the floor, back braced against the side of the bed, nursing a crystal rock glass filled with clear liquid and garnished with a slice of lime. He’s kicked off his expensive leather shoes, legs akimbo. His tie and jacket are lying a few feet away in a crumpled heap like he’s balled them up and thrown them. Through the material of his electric plum colored shirt, Natasha sees the arc reactor’s circle of blue light.

“Not enjoying the party?” he asks.

“Not really my scene.”

And calling it a party is generous. _Rave_ might be a bit more accurate.

“Anywhere is your scene,” he says dismissively. “Surprised you’re not with Birdbrain. You two are usually attached at the hip.”

“Clint and Steve left early. It’s not really their scene either.”

“I suppose the Hometown Hero probably reached his quota of fun for the night, huh?”

Natasha doesn’t acknowledge the barb against Steve. She also doesn’t ask why, if Tony dislikes Steve so much, he keeps finding opportunities for them to interact outside of SHIELD missions, inviting him to functions, to meals.

The reason is obvious enough to Natasha and Clint, although it continues to elude Steve.

Patriotic. Military men. Responsible. Prideful. Rising rapidly up the military’s chain of command despite health issues and skin color.

Natasha has never even met James Rhodes, but off the top of her head, she can already draw several superficial similarities between him and Steve. She can do the same for Clint and Harold Hogan, and also for herself and Pepper Potts.

It makes Natasha pity Tony, of how desperately lonely he must be, how friendless, to resort to surrounding himself with unsatisfactory simulacrums of his dead friends.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked… when is your birthday?” He looks at her as she sinks down elegantly to sit next to him on the floor.

Setting down her specialty cocktail glass, she kicks off her heels and crosses her legs primly beneath her, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her lap. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Oh.” He winces. “Tactless.”

“As ever.”

“You should give out manuals.” He’s slurring slightly. “‘How to Talk to SHIELD Spies Without Trampling Over Every Emotional Minefield’.”

Tony says all this while intently contemplating his left socked foot, wiggling his toes. He’s acting very drunk. He sounds very drunk. But Natasha is close enough to smell his breath, and she can’t catch even the faintest whiff of alcohol.

“I thought you preferred learning through trial by fire,” she says.

He hums listlessly. “Well, if today was _your_ birthday, how would you celebrate it?”

Natasha gazes at the ocean through the glass wall, the rolling waves like ever-shifting lines of glinting silver. The dichotomy between the ocean view and the lack of sound is incongruous.

“I’d do whatever I want,” she finally says, “with whoever I want.”

“Well.” He tosses back his drink. “This _is_ what I want.”

 _No, it isn’t_ , Natasha thinks.

This is the problem with Tony Stark. He’s trying too hard to be a pantomime of himself – to play the part of the Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist. Excessively vulgar. Gimmicky. Flamboyant.

Steve hates the masquerade – he thinks he hates Tony himself because he can’t see past the sham. Clint pities Tony for it, but he still doesn’t like him.

Natasha, though. Natasha likes him.

It’s a shallow appreciation, stemmed more from pity than anything else. But her pity is still better than Steve’s hostility and Clint’s indifference, and so Tony gravitates to her most of the time.

Natasha likes him for other reasons as well – the same way Lila Barton likes pretty things solely because they’re pretty.

Instead of vocalizing all of this, she says, “It’s very you.” When he turns to look quizzically at her – dark eyes focused and intent and direct, not drunk at all – she continues, “You always get what you want, and then you feel sorry for yourself when what you want doesn’t make you happy.”

Two months ago, he would have told her to fuck off, now he just raises a controlled eyebrow. “Who says I’m not happy?”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” she asks, voice flat. “You look _miserable_. You’re hiding in your room because you don’t want to be at your own shitty party.”

“Is there anything here you think _isn’t_ shitty?” he asks.

Natasha thinks about that for a moment.

“Your floors,” she says.

“My _floors_?”

Natasha unfolds one slender leg, rubbing the bottom of her foot against the polished wooden panels.

“They’re very clean. Slippery enough to skate on,” she informs her gob-smacked teammate. “Easily the most impressive thing about your house.”

Tony throws his head back and laughs. It’s nothing like his press laugh. It’s unselfconscious and infectious and reminds Natasha of a donkey’s bray. He also sounds a lot like one of Lila’s cartoons – the one about the yellow sponge living in a pineapple under the sea. What was the name, SpongeBob? She feels her lips quirk up at the thought.

She thinks it’s the first time that she’s ever seen Tony laugh.

“I needed that,” he says. “Thanks.”

Natasha takes another drink from her yellow-red mocktail. The round base of the curved glass leaves an unbroken ring of clear condensation on the floor. She unfolds her other leg, stretching it out in front of her.

He clears his throat, studiously looking away from her. “Can you, uh…?” He gestures to where her dress has ridden up her thighs, exposing bare skin.

This… is unexpected.

Natasha knows how Tony is at parties. He brings famous supermodels and actresses as dates, one on each arm, playing the part of a sleaze and a man-whore full tilt – but it’s all performative. At the end of the night, he always goes home alone.

Tony hasn’t shown a genuine interest in a woman since Pepper Pott’s death two years ago, and Natasha has long suspected that losing three of his closest friends all in one fell swoop has broken something in him irreparably.

So this? His sudden attraction to Natasha?

It’s unexpected.

But not _unwelcome_.

“Am I distracting you?” she asks, hiding a smile behind the rim of her glass.

“Well, you’re not exactly doing wonders for my concentration.”

“And if I want you to be concentrating on me?” she asks lowly.

Tony stares back at her with the arrogant, insouciant manner of someone who knows exactly how good-looking they are. Under his gaze, Natasha’s movements feel magnified and sensual. Tony’s dark eyes are sharp, alert, _hungry_.

Definitely not drunk.

Natasha meets his gaze frankly, crooking a manicured finger around the stem of her cocktail glass. Her lipstick leaves a red imprint on the rim.

“We’re both drunk,” he says.

“I’m as drunk as you are.”

“Have you been paying attention at all tonight? Because I’ve drunk quite a bit.”

She swaps their glasses, taking a sip of his sparkling water with lime. “This isn’t a vodka tonic,” she remarks.

He considers her glass of orange-cranberry juice. “As much as this is a tequila sunrise.”

“So we’re both sober.” She lets herself grin. Sharklike. Predatory. “Wonderful.”

Natasha isn’t even making this decision with sex in mind. Mostly, she thinks of it as a self-esteem boost – a happy confirmation of her own attractiveness. Tony isn’t exactly hard on the eyes, either. She’s also, admittedly, a bit curious about how much of the rumors of his reputation and prowess in bed is based on fact.

She leans in close, puts a hand on Tony’s chest, near his arc-reactor, and feels his muscles tense up.

 _Ah_ , Natasha thinks. _So that’s the problem._

“If you’re not going topless,” she says. “Neither am I.”

He relaxes. “You look good in that dress.” His hands travel up to rest on the curves of her waist.

“Bergdorf Goodman.”

“I’d hate to take it off you.”

“Then it’s settled.” She shimmies close, brushes her lips against the shell of his ear. “Think of it as flexing your birthday privileges.”

The first time they sleep together is an impulse.

The subsequent times after that are less so.


	2. Chapter 2

Spring. Middle of April. High season in Moscow.

A man staggers drunkenly into the hotel reception lobby. His dark hair is wild, sticking up everywhere like he’s just stuck his finger in an electric socket. His gaudy red-and-gold tie is wrapped around his forehead. A pair of dark sunglasses wobbles precariously on the bridge of his nose. His dinner jacket is missing. His left foot is shoeless, clad only in an Iron Man-themed sock. The sleeves of his white dress shirt have been ripped clean off at the seams, baring his biceps and forearms.

He has a woman with him – red-haired and curvy, in a skimpy glittery dress. Her face is caked with makeup – gold glitter painted on her eyelids, lashes heavily mascaraed and as dark as a raven’s wings, full lips painted a deep dark pink.

They stick out like sore thumbs amid the classy elegance of the reception area – the gleaming marble surfaces polished to shine like mirrors, the columns gilt with gold, the tinkling crystal chandelier, the gold candleholders resting at intervals along the banisters of the grand spiral staircase, the decorative mosaics and the rick vibrant hues of the furniture.

The redheaded woman all but drapes herself over the man. Every person in the lobby averts their eyes. With discomfort. Embarrassment. Anger.

Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable. And _drunken_ public displays of affection even more so.

“ _Nikolai!_ ” Tony says in barely accented Russian, slumping against the counter as he addresses the receptionist. “ _Nik! Have you met my dear friend here, Madame Nataliya?_ ”

Tony raises Natasha’s hand to his mouth gallantly. She flashes her best glamor girl smile and wiggles her fingers in a kittenish manner. The receptionist’s mouth thins with displeasure.

“ _Mr. Stark,_ ” he says in a clipped tone. “ _I do not know how you Americans do things. But we do not cater to working girls here._ ”

“ _Come now, Nik! That’s discrimination! The sex industry is a perfectly respectable profession. It takes real skill to do what Nataliya can do. I’m sure if the two of you just get to know each other – your first names both start with the letter ‘N’! There! You already have so much in common!_ ”

Tony leans forward and his sunglasses slide down to the tip of his nose. Natasha pushes them back up for him. In the reflection of one of the glass display cases, she can see their target approaching, flanked on either side by his bodyguards.

“ _We’re running a classy establishment here, Mr. Stark._ ”

“ _And Madame Nataliya is a class act!_ ” Tony leers at her. Natasha paints a sultry smile on her face.

“ _Tony Stark?_ ”

Nikandr Viktorov. Russian oligarch with unproven, shady connections with the mafia and several international drug cartels. Normally, he’d be the DEA and CIA’s problem. But Viktorov was also one of the few suspected to be in collusion with Ivan Vanko AKA Whiplash. SHIELD also believes that he’s now harboring the wanted fugitive Aldrich Killian – the sole remaining carrier of Maya Hansen’s Extremis virus.

It’s why Tony is here now. Pierce and Fury are banking on the draw of the arc reactor and Killian’s enmity towards Tony being enough to bait Killian and Viktorov into showing their cards.

“ _Nikandr Viktorov_.” He offers his hand. Tony shakes.

Tony drops the drunken ruse the moment the suite door locks behind them. “You can have the bathroom first,” he offers. “I can’t take you seriously with that stuff on your face.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and starts to disrobe. She toes off her five-inch heels first, exhaling in quiet relief. Then she unbuckles her belt, unzips her dress, and lets the garment fall to the floor in a careless heap. She unfastens the harness at her thigh, discarding the roll of hidden knives just as absently. There’s a stiletto blade concealed in the hooks of her bra, and her beaded bracelet is in actuality her new experimental Widow’s Bites. The last to go is the hairpin – underneath its clear sheath, the tip is sharpened to a deadly point and tipped with poison. She carries an arsenal with her at all times – strapped to herself when awake, lying within reach when asleep.

It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.

“Let me guess,” Tony says. “The belt is actually a poisoned garrote. Or a knife. Or both.”

She pats his cheek condescendingly. “You know me so well.”

Tony follows her into the bathroom but not underneath the shower spray. Instead, he leans against the bathroom sink and pulls out his phone while Natasha scrubs soap over her face. The weight of her hair is wet and heavy against the back of her neck. She thinks she should cut it.

“I’m texting Clint,” he tells her. “Telling him to get things ready on his end when Killian shows.”

She squeezes a generous dollop of vanilla-scented shampoo onto her palm and rubs it into her scalp. “ _If_ Killian shows. He might hate you, but he’s far from stupid. And going after you at the gala is risky.”

“Oh, he’ll show.” He sounds darkly amused. “Extremis isn’t stable. You saw the news – people went bang in the streets. They painted the walls. Eventually, Killian is going to go the same way. I’m surprised he held out this long. The only chance he has is me – and he knows it.”

She rinses out her hair. Soap runs down her back and arms. “ _Can_ you stabilize it?”

Tony says nothing for a long moment. He stares at his reflection and smooths his palm over his chest, right over his arc reactor. A nervous tick. For a moment, when the fabric is pulled tight over his torso, Natasha sees the outline of a necklace chain.

“In the spirit of full disclosure,” he says. “Pierce wants to offer Killian a job.”

“What?”

“I mean, are you really surprised?” he asks. “A guy with Killian’s skill set is never wanting for employment.”

“He turned people into human bombs.”

“What’s your point?” He shrugs. “Pierce already has the NPA all typed up, waiting for Killian to sign on the dotted line.”

Natasha turns off the shower and sticks out a hand, palm up. Tony hands her two fluffy white towels. She wraps one around her torso, uses the other to wring out the moisture in her hair.

“You didn’t hear it from me, of course,” he says.

“Of course,” she agrees placidly. “I’ll have a talk with Fury. But if he can’t talk Pierce out of it-”

“I won’t go against Pierce,” he says.

“I didn’t expect you to,” she says. It still perplexes her. Sometime in the past three years, Tony Stark became Alexander Pierce’s man through and through, and she still has no idea how it even happened. “But if we manage to subdue Killian. And he’s still alive at that point…”

“Accidents happen,” he says mildly.

“Accidents happen,” she agrees.

Natasha steps out of the shower, moves close to Tony, tilts her head back to look up at him. She’s aware of how she must look to him. The white towel offset against the rosy creaminess of her skin. Her red hair plastered damply to her bare shoulders and neck.

“The gala isn’t until tomorrow night,” she murmurs. “However shall we spend the time?”

“No,” he says flatly.

She smirks. “That’s not what you said yesterday.”

“You weren’t pretending to be my prostitute yesterday,” he reminds her. “I don’t have a fetish for Master/Slave dynamics.”

“And here I thought you’d try anything once.”

“Who says I haven’t?” he asks. “Why a prostitute anyway? I know SHIELD has the resources to get you a fake identity.”

“Your dates are all high-profile women,” she reasons. “People would dig. But no one pays attention to a working girl.”

He looks at her in exasperation. “Just admit that you wanted everyone to think I brought a prostitute as my date to a high society gala.”

She leans up, brushes her lips against his cheek in a dry kiss. “It’s the little things in life that bring me joy.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing the walk of shame for so long that I’m immune to actual shame.” He gazes at her with fond amusement.

“Then I guess I’ll have to try harder.”

“I can’t tell.” He looks genuinely confused. “Whether this is you flirting with me, or if this is the weirdest game of not-gay gay chicken I’ve ever played.”

“Shower.” She swats him playfully on the ass. “And be quick about it. I’m starving and there’s a restaurant in this place that serves authentic Italian food.”

“Why do you want to have Italian food in Russia?” he asks. “That’s like going to Rome to see the Spanish Steps.”

“And yet, people do it all the time.”

“That’s not a valid argument. People are generally idiots.”

Natasha rummages through their luggage for a change of clothes. She leaves the bathroom door open so they don’t have to stop their conversation. Inside, she can hear Tony start up the shower. He’s peculiar about being seen topless because of the scars on his chest, and Natasha doesn’t push.

“If you have a hankering for Italian – and don’t leer at me-”

“I wasn’t leering at you.”

“You were building up to a leer.”

“You can’t even see my face.”

“It was an audible leer.”

“If you say so, Tony.”

A beat of suspicious silence. “I make a mean risotto al dente,” he says.

She laughs. She can’t help it. “What are you talking about, Tony? You can’t cook.”

“I can so cook. Who says I can’t cook?”

“ _I_ say you can’t cook. Tony, remember the one and only time you tried to make us breakfast in bed? You burnt _water_.”

“It was _soup-_ ”

“Right. And soup is just throwing all the ingredients in a pot of water and waiting for it to boil. How does someone mess up _soup_? Who even makes soup for breakfast?”

“I _can_ cook. This dish. _One_ dish.”

“Risotto is an acceptable breakfast food, Tony.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have rice. Only the crappy instant stuff that comes in boxes and smells like glue.”

Natasha, now fully dressed, is just pulling on a pair of fur-lined Ugg boots when the shower stops, and Tony steps out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe and toweling off his damp hair. He’s frowning at her.

“God, listen to us. This is so _domestic_. I’ve been domesticated.”

“How shameful,” she deadpans. “Now. Lunch.”

“Talk about a one-track mind,” he says. “But no Italian.”

They have lunch at the patio restaurant and order several courses, splurging a little. Borscht and chilled Okroshka for starters. Beef stroganoff and Pelmeni as mains. Blini and Syrniki for dessert.

Well, Natasha considers it splurging. But the bill probably barely makes a dent in Tony’s wallet.

“It’s always Russia,” he complains as they finish up their dessert. “Whenever some fugitive wants to hide in a country with no extradition, they always come to Russia. Always. Why Russia? What’s so good about Russia?” He looks up at her. “No offense. Just… a little variety wouldn’t hurt. Why not Tokyo? Or Goa?”

“Hmm,” she says.

Natasha spoons more Greek yogurt and blueberry fruit preserves onto her plate of Syrniki. She likes listening to Tony’s voice, the animated cadence underlying his words. She likes the way his baseball cap is tilted vainly on his coiffed hair.

“Still kinda hungry. You want to get some street food after this?”

“Hmm.”

With one hand, Natasha toys with the menu, so stiffly laminated that it can be used as a weapon – to slit someone’s throat, or to gouge their eyes out. With the other, she scrolls through her phone.

“I’ve just realized that I’m madly in love with Steve Rogers and now I’m going to proposition him for hot, thrusting, gay sex.”

She looks up from her phone serenely. “I’ve heard that antagonism is really just the product of sublimated sexual attraction.”

“Just checking if you were listening,” he says, raising his hands in metaphorical surrender.

Natasha makes another noncommittal humming noise in the back of her throat, turns her phone around, and shows Tony a candid of a young woman with rich hazelnut skin and glossy obsidian hair.

“Would you date her?” she asks.

“ _Definitely_ not,” he says vehemently. “Look at her face. She’s a baby. That’s cradle-robbing.”

“Look at you.” She nudges his ankle with her foot, grinning teasingly. “Your days of prurient debauchery are definitely behind you.”

“Yeah.” He snorts. “I’m a model of vestal chastity.”

“Okay,” she says. “Do you think _Steve_ would date her, then?”

“You’re like an old _babushka_.” He’s grinning. “Nagging at him to give you ridiculously blond grandbabies to spoil.”

She shrugs and sets down her phone. “He’s… lonely.”

“What happened to that girl he was seeing? The one with the name starting with an ‘A’?”

“Alice from Behavioral Analysis?”

“No, the other one. The forensic pathologist. Nice olive skin. Looked kind of delicate, a bit doll-like.”

“Aubrey? Yeah, that one was a bust.”

“Why? She impressed me. Really knew her way around a bone-saw. Smart. Cute. _And_ violent.”

A wry smile plays around her mouth. “Apparently, her idea of an ice-breaker is talking about the kind of songs she likes to listen to when conducting a post-mortem in the crime lab.”

“That’s not so bad,” he says reasonably. “I’ve heard worse. I’ve _said_ worse.”

“She listens to ‘Eat It’. On a loop. You know…” She clears her throat and starts to sing lowly, “ _Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it. Get yourself an egg and beat it…_ ”

He laughs like it’s surprised out of him. “Where do you even _find_ these women, Natasha?”

“At this point, I’m even contemplating Sharon Carter. I’m _that_ desperate.”

“Peggy Carter’s _niece_? Are you trying to traumatize Rogers, Nat? I thought that was my job.”

“It’s not that strange,” she says conversationally. “They don’t look alike at all. You’d never guess they were related. And anyway, it used to be common in Chinese culture, after someone’s wife passed away, to remarry again with her sister.”

He looks disturbed. “I’ve _never_ heard of that.”

“It’s a very old practice.”

“I’m not Chinese.”

“I’m not asking _you_ to date Sharon, Tony.”

“Rogers isn’t Chinese either.”

“Well, if you’re not going to be productive and help…” She sighs and drains the rest of her coffee. “You still want to try street food? I know a great place to get Pirozhki.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've planned out the next couple of chapters. And the plot for CA:TWS is probably going to start in Chapter 5. For now, I'm just building the groundwork.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Clint is the first one to notice it._

_It happens during one of their regular post-mission shawarma gatherings. Clint stuffing his face with choice slices of roast lamb and mutton, having disabled his hearing aids so he doesn’t have to hear Natasha and Tony engaging in their ritualistic over-the-top flirting and exchanging lewd innuendos – done mostly because Tony likes riling up Cap._

_Predictably, the good Captain makes his excuses and leaves halfway through the meal, probably not used to Stark’s particular brand of assholery. While Clint, who in his line of work, has met assholes ten times worse than Stark ever will be, just shrugs and keeps on eating. If only Stark and Rogers could see that they’re both similar in the worst ways – both of them take offense at the tiniest thing._

_Tony shifts away from Natasha the moment Steve is out of sight, so the two of them sit side-by-side like normal people instead of two people about to be arrested for public indecency._

_The fact that they’re fucking each other doesn’t come as a surprise to Clint. Not really. He kinda saw it coming. As close as Natasha has gotten to Cap, she’s always been a woman who likes her partners to bite back. Cap is too wholesome, too safe._

_Stark, on the other hand, with his razor-edged defensive wit and his acidic temperament, is just her type._

_It happens so quickly Clint thinks he’s imagined it._

_Natasha’s head is bent towards Stark as she tells him something in a low voice, hair falling forward to cover her mouth. Her green eyes glitter like a cat’s. Something about the way they curve into each other reminds Clint of himself and Laura, of the way all couples sometimes seem to retreat into a separate bubble universe._

_Then the moment passes, and Clint shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the thought from his brain. He looks back at Tony and Natasha, now back to eye-fucking each other, expressions in turns lazy and predatory and shamelessly lustful, and dismisses it as a moment of temporary insanity._

_Except it happens again._

_During a mission in the Philippines, Natasha buys Stark a postcard. The cheap kind with a spider doodled absently on the back and taped to a pack of chlorophyll chewing gum. A gesture that speaks of a sort of absentminded care and makes alarm bells go off in Clint’s head._

_On an undercover op in Dubai, she sends Stark a simple wooden coffee scoop._

_In Spain, she gets him a goddamn hamper – Turron and Manchego cheeses and a Caganer figurine of Captain America with his pants down._

_In China, it’s a roll of novelty toilet paper printed with the American dollar currency. Plus a Christmas-themed one-piece mankini thong that Clint hopes to **God** is just a gag gift._

_The shift is so gradual that Clint thinks Natasha doesn’t even realize it’s happening._

Tony and Natasha approach the bar, arm-in-arm. Tony is emptyhanded, but Natasha is nursing a coupe of violently pink liquid, topped with white foam and garnished with a pink sugared flower. It’s one of the girliest things Clint has ever seen. Natasha perches herself on the counter, swings her legs around, and slides down to join Clint on the other side of the bar.

“Killian is a no-show,” Natasha says. She grabs a bottle of sparkling water and a lime, starts to mix a drink.

Clint swipes his rag over the countertop. “So this whole night is a bust.” He looks at Tony. “This guy is smarter than you give him credit for.”

“Yeah.” Tony is frowning. His shoulders are rigid and tense. “I don’t like it when my enemies are smart. I like them stupid and arrogant and overconfident, with a nice big Achilles heel.”

“So we go with Plan B,” Natasha reminds them. She slides the glass of sparkling water with lime (completely non-alcoholic) across the counter to Tony, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Interesting. Clint wonders how long Tony has been sober. More importantly, he wonders how long Natasha has known about it. “Tony, your six o’clock.”

As Viktorov comes within hearing range, Natasha and Tony switch flawlessly to Russian, bantering playfully. The Russian oligarch engages Tony in conversation and barely spares the supposed bartender and prostitute a glance, gaze jumping over them like a record skipping a groove.

Which is why he doesn’t see it coming when Natasha leans forward and jabs a tranquilizer dart into his neck. At the same time, Tony’s fingers move to the watch at his left wrist, pressing down on the buttons, and the lights flicker.

People begin to murmur in impatience and aggravation. The moment of disorientation is enough for Natasha to grip Nikandr Viktorov by the collar of his suit and haul his limp body over the counter. She slams him onto a rolling cart and wheels him through the double doors of the kitchenette. Clint follows behind her.

On cue, Stark vomits all over the fancy-ass shoes of some important Russian dignitary, drawing every eye to him. Tony loudly babbles on about having too much vodka, doing what he does best – the drunken fool act.

Clint is a bit envious of the other man’s ability to upchuck on demand. He can certainly think of a few key occasions in the past where it would have been useful for him.

“You wanted the arc reactor,” Clint says, cutting off Viktorov’s shuddering explanation with an impatient swipe through the air. “Killian wanted Stark’s help to stabilize Extremis, and he told you that you could have whatever was left of Stark once he was finished with him. We already know that.” He leans forward. His biceps, thick with corded muscle, bracket the other man’s head. “But where is Killian _now_?”

Nikandr Viktorov is stubbornly mute. He’s in a chair nailed to the ground, handcuffed to a table. A patch of his blonde hair has been yanked out by the roots, leaving a bloody bald patch on his scalp. His mouth is swollen and purple, chin crusted over with dried blood. With his blonde hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and tapered waist, he looks like a Russian, less handsome version of Steve Rogers.

Natasha leans against the wall of the SHIELD interrogation room, arms crossed, at a place where Viktorov has to crane his neck all the way to the left if he wants to keep her in his line of sight. The knuckles of her left hand are coated with his blood. She’s still dressed for a party – dark green dress, thick black mascara darkening her lashes, eyelids shimmering in the orange-purple colors of a sunset.

Natasha catches Clint’s eye and tilts her head. Her expression is one of default blankness, like a mechanical doll that’s been reset to factory settings. She studies Viktorov with a fierce sort of disinterest, but Clint knows from experience just how fast that same detachment can transform into violence.

“You’re quiet,” Clint says. “Either you’re not as spineless as I think you are – which I highly doubt. Or you somehow think this is still salvageable for you. You think… your people are tracking us down? If they are, they’re taking their sweet time of it. And even if they find us, I wish them luck trying to break you out of here.”

Viktorov pulls his lips back from his teeth. “I do not know where Killian is,” he says, slowly and deliberately, his words heavily accented. “I do not know how to contact him. He contacts me.”

“But you know how to find him.”

Viktorov grins again. Blood stains the white of his teeth. “I might.”

“You _might_?”

“SHIELD wants me dead either way,” Viktorov says. “What difference does it make to me what I say?”

“It’s the difference between dying quickly and painlessly, or dying like a worm wriggling on a hook. I know which one I’d prefer.”

“And yet,” Viktorov says. “Spite is a powerful motivator.”

“So is pain,” Clint says with a sort of quiet menace.

“Tony isn’t back yet,” Natasha says suddenly.

Clint shoots her a startled look at the non sequitur. “What?”

Natasha has been staring ferociously into the middle distance, but at his words, she appears to rouse herself. She pushes off against the wall and stalks toward Viktorov, hips swaying slightly.

It’s an artful performance. Everything about Natasha is artful – from the curve of her throat to the fall of her crimson hair around her shoulders, the delicate beads of sweat glinting at her hairline and even the drying blood flaking off her knuckles.

“The gala ended hours ago.” Natasha’s voice is cool and collected – the way it is at her most dangerous. “He should be back by now – but he isn’t. He hasn’t checked in either. And you’ve been stalling.” She tilts her head in a leonine manner. “You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“да как же так?” Viktorov says.

“Because Killian has him,” Natasha says. Clint bites down savagely on his lip to keep from expressing his surprise. “I don’t know what he did that convinced you to do it, and I don’t know how he earned your loyalty. But you’re stalling for him.”

“Am I?” Viktorov asks softly. “That is news to me.”

A pause that stretches on. “Killian didn’t tell you, did he?” Natasha asks. Her guileless green eyes widen with a terrible triumphant pity. “He was at the gala, you know. He slipped away before we could catch him. And now he has what he came for, and you are here, with us.”

Another stretch of silence. “You will kill me no matter what I say,” Viktorov says again.

“Look at it this way.” Clint’s lip is bleeding where he’s bitten it and he tastes blood in his mouth. “At least you’ll be able to die looking at something pretty.”

“Thank you, Clint,” Natasha says pleasantly.

Clint side-eyes her. “I was talking about myself.”

Phil Coulson is waiting for them when they step out of the interrogation room. “Is he talking?” he asks.

“Singing like a canary,” Natasha says.

Clint falls into step next to her. “Stark?” he says, his tone edged with humor. “Kidnapped?”

Natasha shrugs blasely.

Tony has been MIA for the entire night, but knowing Tony… “It’s more likely that he’s gone off on his own to hunt down Killian without telling us, and now he’s stuck somewhere because he’s bitten off more than he can chew.”

“Well, I know that,” Natasha says easily. “And you know that.” She jerks her shoulder to the one-way glass of the interrogation room. “But he doesn’t. As he said – spite is a powerful motivator.”

“Well,” Clint says. “Shall we go and rescue our wayward comrade?”

“Tony is less in need of rescue than any man I’ve ever met in my life.” Natasha snorts. “And Russians don’t say ‘comrade’. We say ‘ _Tovarisch_ ’. It’s socialists who use that term.”

“Blame mainstream Western media,” Clint says. “So we’re _not_ going to go look for your man?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

Outside, the night sky is a sheet of velvety blackness. The windows of the SHIELD compound are aglow with electricity. Natasha slings herself into the driver’s seat of one of the SHIELD-issued jeeps, turning the key in the ignition.

“And _how_ do we know where we’re going?” Clint asks.

“We follow the explosions,” Natasha says simply.

“What explosions?”

As if the universe exists to laugh at him, there’s an immediate answering _BOOM!_ And Clint looks up to see a fiery mushroom cloud blossoming in the night sky.

“Oh, _that_ explosion,” Clint says. “What makes you think it’ll lead us to Tony?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Natasha shakes her head in apparent sadness. “Our Tony is such a sweet, even-tempered, well-behaved man. Explosions aren’t usually his thing _at all_.”

Clint cackles gleefully as Natasha floors the gas pedal. They peel out of the parking lot with the sound of squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s like battling a tornado made out of boiling air and fire.

Aldrich Killian reminds Clint of a demon king straight out of one of Cooper’s video games. His clothing has been burnt away and he’s completely butt naked except for a few tattered pieces of blackened and smoldering cloth clinging to his skin. His body glows like the molten core of the earth, bright lines spidering over his arms and torso like lava cracks. His eyes are pinpricks of light. He emanates so much heat that the air ripples around him.

Their blows slide right off him like water sliding off a duck. Killian absorbs Natasha’s bullets and Clint’s arrows and just keeps on coming. Even Tony’s repulsor blasts only manage to knock him back for a few measly seconds.

Killian retaliates by throwing a car at him.

Literally, he just… picks up a car with his bare hands and then throws it up at Iron Man with a bellow of rage. The incredible show of strength takes Tony by surprise and he doesn’t dodge the airborne five-seater in time. He hits the concrete ground of the parking lot hard enough to leave a shallow crater. Before he can pick himself back up again, Killian is there, moving inhumanely fast, red-hot fingers forming claws as he tears off pieces of the Iron Man armor like so much wet tissue paper.

Superhuman strength? Check.

Superhuman agility? Check.

Regenerative healing factor? Check.

“Hiding, are we? Like a turtle in a shell?” Killian taunts. “Come on out now, Tony,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Don’t be shy.”

Iron Man tries to strike at him with his fist and knee, but Killian is strong enough to stop each blow with one hand, the force of his grip warping the metal along the gauntlet and knee. Killian picks Tony up like a ragdoll, unhinges his jaw like a nutcracker, and exhales a plume of flaming breath, bathing the armor in an inferno.

“He breathes fire too,” Clint mutters, exhausted. “Of course he does.”

Because they _really_ needed the supervillain upgrade.

Clint dearly hopes that not everyone Tony has ever been a dick to becomes evil, because otherwise they’d be drowning in supervillains.

Electricity arches over the armor, forcing Killian to release his grip and stagger back, momentarily stunned. The armor opens up, ejecting Tony, who collapses, heaving, onto his knees. His skin is painfully pink and raw-looking and he smells heavily of burnt hair. He’s also smoking a little.

Killian slams his knee into Tony’s face, and the other man crumples. Clint launches himself forward in a flying kick, but Killian seems to have eyes in the back of his head, because he just _moves_ , so quickly Clint almost doesn’t see the movement – shifting just slightly to the right so the blow just grazes his side, grabbing Clint and throwing him down.

Clint bangs his chin against the ground, tasting gravel mingled with his own blood. He twists, jabbing an arrowhead into Killian’s shins and lashing out with a kick. When Killian goes down – more out of surprise than any sort of pain, Clint thinks – Clint gets behind him, hooking his bow over and onto Killian’s windpipe.

They’re rolling across the road, Clint’s bow locked over Killian’s windpipe, until they run out of parking space, and Clint’s head slams into the bottom of the brick wall bordering the edge of the lot. He sees stars and his grip slackens.

There are fingers wrapping around his throat, lifting him up and slamming him back against the side of a car. He chokes and lashes out with his arm, but Killian halts the blow in mid-air. It feels like white-hot pokers are being pressed into his neck and wrist. He can feel his skin bubbling and melting away, smell burning flesh.

A flash of red hair knocks Killian away from him.

Natasha.

Killian is clawing at a round disc attached to his shoulder. Natasha grabs Clint and drags him into the narrow space between car and wall just as the bomb goes off.

“Is he dead?” Clint croaks. Speaking hurts.

Natasha peers around the car and curses in Russian. “Actually, I think we just made him angry.” She pauses. “Well, _angrier_.”

Killian is roaring, a sound more animal than man. His right arm is missing from the shoulders down, but as Clint watches, the stump glows a fiery Extremis, bubbling and warping to form new muscle and bone – until finally, he flexes his hand, the limb again pristine and unmarked. It’s grotesque to watch.

Killian shoves the car, which skids forward, trapping Clint and Natasha between it and the wall. Clint can see the outline of Killian’s skull in his head, like an unholy light shining from inside a Jack-o’-lantern. His teeth are ingots of silver. Killian puts his hands on the side of the car and puts pressure. Clint feels his bones grind together and he realizes Killian intends to crush them –

There’s a brilliant flash of light and Killian staggers sideways. Clint follows his gaze to see Tony, his arc reactor in his hands, jury-rigged into some sort of weapon.

Both men collapse, matching holes in their chests. Killian’s skin is as dim and lightless as Tony’s arc reactor.

It takes a herculean effort to free themselves. Natasha cuts herself several times in her haste. She sinks to her knees next to Tony – his eyes are closed, his lips colorless, and the muscles of his chest are spasming erratically. There’s a perfectly round metal hole in the center of his torso that Natasha forces herself to scrutinize. He has minutes if that.

“Clint,” Natasha says. She hardly recognizes her own voice, which sounds strange and distant. “I need a car battery.”

Clint was never an idiot. He’s on his feet in the time it takes her to blink, dashing away to the nearest intact car.

Natasha stays by Tony’s side. Her body is covered in burns, but all she feels is cold. There’s an icy paralysis spreading from her heart down to her toes. Her veins are filling with frozen water – a bitter bone-deep iciness that threatens to shatter her.

Clint returns clutching a car battery, trailing tubes and wires.

_“His name was Yinsen,” Tony tells her once. He has his eyes closed, so he doesn’t see Natasha watching him. She’s always preferred watching Tony when he isn’t looking back. “He saved my life.”_

It’s almost like having an out-of-body experience. Natasha watches, as if from a spectator’s viewpoint, as she reaches into the hole in Tony’s chest where the arc reactor is supposed to go in, fingers feeling nimbly along the sides of the curved metal. Finally, she finds a port and starts attaching the wires, vaguely hoping that what she’s doing won’t kill him faster.

She must be doing something right, because a jolt of energy seems to go through Tony and his eyes snap open, back arching off the ground. One hand goes to his chest, hovering over Natasha’s wrist. She starts to pull away, wanting him to take over, but Tony shakes his head.

“They won’t fit.” Tony splays his right hand, much bigger than Natasha’s own. His left hand stays by his side, the limb bent oddly – at one point, he must have injured it. His eyes are wide, pupils black and huge, brown irises reduced to narrow rings. “Don’t panic,” he says, even as his own chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to keep calm. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Natasha’s chest is full of un-melting ice. She doesn’t think there’s any room for panic.

The world narrows down to Tony’s voice and Natasha’s own hands, wrist-deep in his chest. She doesn’t know how much time passes until shrapnel no longer threatens to turn Tony’s heart into swish cheese. In the end, she and Clint help him sit up. Tony is clutching the car battery to himself, dark eyes haunted and a million miles away – Natasha doesn’t have to guess what he’s thinking of.

Suddenly, Tony laughs. Clint and Natasha stare at him like he’s gone crazy. They’re all covered in burns, clothes and hair singed. Tony’s skin is pink and tender like he’s been gently and evenly charbroiled. Clint has handprint-shaped blisters and oozing sores on his neck and arm.

“Tasha.” Tony is grinning, a wild and crazed thing. The nickname strikes her like a punch to the sternum. “You literally kept my broken heart beating with the strength of your passion. Wow.”

“I wouldn’t throw stones, Stark,” Clint drawls blithely, even as he looks over Tony with unmistakable relief. “You were the one who literally ripped your own heart out of your chest.”

Tony laughs, but Natasha is not watching him any longer. She’s staring down at her hands, bloodied and cut by the sharp wires. They’re as steady and motionless as a corpse’s.

There’s a realization teasing at the edge of her awareness. Knowledge that she doesn’t want to be conscious of.

“No strenuous activity,” Natasha scolds Tony, plucking the tablet from his weak grasp. “I mean it.”

“But I’m bored,” Tony whines, sounding more like a boy of four than a man in his mid-forties.

Natasha is reminded irresistibly of Lila, flu-stricken and sentenced to bedrest, sinking her teeth into the meat of Natasha’s hand during a tantrum. She tries to decide whether Tony is more or less likely to bite her.

“What am I even supposed to _do_?” he complains.

“You _rest_.”

“Sounds like torture.” He eyes her speculatively. “Unless you have some entertainment planned?”

She smothers a smile. “I said no strenuous activity. And you have a sprained wrist.”

“I’m ambidextrous.”

“And yet. Still no.”

He peers at her from underneath his eyelashes. “I could persuade you.”

“Tempting.” She smiles widely down at him. “But. No.”

Tony makes a sound like a deflated balloon and flops onto his bed, arms and legs akimbo like a starfish.

“Very sexy,” she deadpans.

“You’re not very good at this whole nurturing thing,” he accuses.

“Don’t make me gag you and tie you to the bed.”

“Kinky.” He smirks up at her. “Are we role-playing? The patient and the naughty nurse?” At her unimpressed look, he sighs and gives up. “Oh, all right. You’ve crushed my spirit and beaten me down. Resting it is.” He thinks for a moment. “Are you _sure_ you can’t drug me until it’s over?”

Tony doesn’t sound like he’s kidding.

“Don’t sulk,” she tells him. “It’s not attractive on a man your age.”

That only makes Tony sulk more.

“I’m going to get food,” she decides. “You always seem happier when your mouth is occupied.”

The double entendre earns Natasha a bad-tempered scowl.

There is leftover rice and beans in the fridge, and also stir-fry vegetables and mushrooms from yesterday’s Chinese takeout. Her phone rings just as she’s putting both in the microwave to heat up, and she sees Clint’s caller ID on the screen.

“Hey, Clint.”

“ _Auntie Nat!_ ” It’s a little girl’s squeal – Lila. Natasha feels her own lips curve up softly.

“Hey, Lila.”

“ _Is that Auntie Nat?_ ” Cooper’s voice. Clint’s kids must have put her on loudspeaker. “ _I wanna say hi to Auntie Nat!_ ”

Lila and Cooper both put their mouths as close to the phone as they can, babbling over each other. It’s impossible to discern what they’re saying. Natasha only catches bits and pieces, but she indulges them, saying “Yes” and “Of course” and making the occasional encouraging hum.

“ _Sweetheart. Buddy_.” Clint’s voice. “ _What are you doing with Daddy’s phone?_ ”

“ _Talking to Auntie Nat!_ ” Lila says. Then, directly into the mouthpiece: “ _I miss you, Auntie Nat!_ ”

“I miss you too, Lila.”

“ _And me!_ ” Cooper jumps in. “ _We haven’t seen you in forever!_ ”

“Well, you’ll see me again at Lila’s birthday party,” Natasha promises.

Lila lets out a tiny, theatrical gasp. “ _My birthday!_ ”

“ _Hey, c’mon, munchkins,_ ” Clint says. “ _Gimme my phone back. Say goodbye to Auntie Nat._ ”

“ ** _Bye, Auntie Nat!_** ” Lila and Cooper chorus in unison. Then there’s the sound of scampering footsteps.

“ _Scamps_.” It’s Clint, sounding indescribably fond. “ _Sup, Nat. So about Lila’s birthday party-_ ”

“I’ll be there.” The microwave beeps and Natasha pulls on a mitten, unloading the plates. “Of course, I will, Clint. I’ve never missed one. I won’t start now.”

“ _I know that. I just thought…_ ” There’s an awkward pause that she’s not sure she understands. “ _If you wanted to, you could bring Stark._ ”

“Stark?” she parrots, a bit stunned. “Tony Stark?”

“ _Well, it’s not like we know a lot of other Starks, do we?_ ” he retorts sarcastically.

“I… didn’t realize you liked Tony that much,” she says.

“ _I like him just fine – when he deigns to mingle with the rest of us mortals. Always got the sense he thought he was too good for the likes of me._ ”

“He thinks _you_ don’t like _him_. I think the exact word he used to describe you is ‘clubby’.”

His shrug is almost audible. “ _He’s not a bad guy. And he did almost die to save our lives, so I think he’s earned a bit of goodwill. Plus, he’s your man, so I’m pretty much stuck with him._ ”

“He’s not my man,” she says. Too fast. Too defensively.

There’s a beat of silence. “ _Ah,_ ” he says, tone a mixture of self-satisfied and amusement. “ _Finally figured out what’s been going on between you and Stark, have you? Took you long enough. How is His Majesty, by the way?_ ”

“He’s an even worse patient than you are. I’ve almost strangled him three separate times now.”

“ _The things we do for love,_ ” he says wryly.

“Barton has a kid?” Tony says. He looks astounded.

“He has two,” Natasha informs him.

“Huh.” He rolls onto his back and stares meditatively up at the ceiling of his bedroom. “You know, a lot of things make sense now.”

She’s lying next to him on her side of the bed. “It does?”

“Barton’s always had a sort of steadiness. He was… _stable,_ like he constantly had his shit together. Don’t tell him I said this, but I always admired that about him. Him being a parent… that checks out.”

Natasha looks at him, _really_ looks at him – taking in the Tony-ness of him. He’s older than her – there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but his hair is still thick and brown, not yet greying. He doesn’t dye it. His eyes are the color of coffee grounds. He’s in sleepwear. His slippers are green, with alien faces and springy antennae. Underneath the protective shell of facetiousness and egoism, Natasha knows that the ragged shards of his lonely childhood and the loss of his dearest friends still tear at him.

 _Love is for children_ , Natasha reminds herself.

But she’s opened Pandora’s Box. Some things can’t be un-knowed. The knowledge is like a splinter jammed in Natasha’s brain – painful, unable to be ignored, impossible to dislodge.

A gentle fluttering touch at her temple draws Natasha back to reality.

“I want to show you something.” He sits up, briefly pressing a palm against his chest, as if it pains him. She doesn’t know what kind of expression she makes at that moment, but it makes him roll his eyes at her. “I won’t melt,” he assures her.

Tony brings out a cardboard box from his wardrobe, filled with odds and ends – a children’s novel, a plain black notebook, an MIT ring, an old model of the arc reactor in a glass case.

She reads the title of the children’s novel, “King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table?”

“My butler used to read it to me as a bedtime story. He did the best voices. It was my favorite book.”

Natasha feels a wistful smile creep over her mouth as she imagines it – a little boy with a wild mop of brown hair and huge eyes, dozing off in the lap of his British butler, dreaming of armored knights and magic.

“What’s this? Your literal black book?”

Natasha flips through the pages. The handwriting is rushed and cramped and untidy – shopping lists, doodles and cartoons and hand-drawn comics, hasty phone numbers and addresses, dates and times circled in red pen. She looks up at Tony quizzically.

“It was Happy’s,” he says simply.

Natasha looks at the MIT ring with new understanding. If the notebook was Hogan’s –

“Rhodes?” she asks quietly. Tony nods tightly.

Natasha turns to the last item. There is writing engraved around the metal rim of the arc reactor – _PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART._ She doesn’t have to ask to know whose memento this is.

“She helped me out when I was between upgrades once. Her hands were almost as small as yours,” he adds teasingly. “She was grossed out by the inorganic plasmic discharge though.”

She smirks. “The pus?”

“ _Not_ pus. It came from the arc reactor, not my body.”

“And I thought we had something special,” she says dryly. “Do I want to know how many women have had their hands inside your chest?”

“Only two. I’ve been pretty selective so far.” He tucks a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. She doesn’t think he’s ever looked at her with this much intensity before – like she’s precious or dangerous or both. “I just… wanted you to know that even if by some miracle, even if Pepper came back from the dead tomorrow… it wouldn’t change anything between you and me.”

Natasha leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. She feels Tony’s nose brush against her cheekbones, feels her own eyelashes feathering his skin every time she blinks.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For showing me this.”

“I just… couldn’t bear to keep them in a box in the back of my closet forever. Collecting dust. It would’ve…” His breathing hitched. “Like I was trying to forget them. Like they didn’t matter.”

“They mattered.” She reaches up to hold his face. “Okay? They mattered.”

His arms come up to wrap around her waist, pull her close. “Can you stay the night? Just to sleep.”

“Okay.” Her voice comes out in a barely audible whisper. “I’ll stay.”

Natasha stays over so often anyway that she already has a cache of clothes in Tony’s wardrobe. Her toothbrush and toiletries are in the bathroom. Her favorite snacks are stocked in the kitchen cupboards.

It’s a decent amount of real estate to own in someone else’s life.

In the dark, she joins Tony underneath the covers. They’re using separate pillows, a few inches of space between their bodies. He touches Natasha only with his hand, fingers resting lightly in the crook of her elbow.

“What?” she whispers.

“You have a beauty mark – here,” He presses down on her elbow a little with his fingertip. “A second one here.” His hand travels down to rest on her hip. “And a third right below your knee.”

Tony’s hand is still on her hip. Natasha covers it with her own.

“They told us stories too, in the Red Room,” she whispers. “Leda and the Swan. Ariadne. Orpheus and Eurydice. Hyacinthus… you know how all the Greek stories are – tragedies and unhappy endings.”

Tony’s arm curls over Natasha’s waist and draws her close.


	5. Chapter 5

“Disney?” Clint says to Tony as they watch Lila opening her presents – mostly toys.

“What’s wrong with Disney?” Tony whispers back. “I figured Merida was a safe bet. Or are you more of a Katniss fan?”

Lila hugs her two new dolls to her chest – a Victorian doll with spiraling blonde curls and a flowery dress and hat (Clint’s present) and a limited-edition Merida doll with a miniature bow and quiver of arrows (Tony’s gift).

“Oh, no. We love Merida,” Clint says. “No one disses Merida under my roof. I’m all for the empowerment of women. I’m the biggest feminist in this house.” Natasha snorts. “But man… _Disney_.”

“Clint has a _thing_ ,” Laura volunteers, hiding a grin behind a hastily raised hand, “about Disney princess movies.”

“Oh, no.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “Here we go again.”

“Do know how old the average Disney princess is?” Clint asks Tony.

Tony stares back with a sort of cornered, trapped expression. “…no?”

“Sixteen,” Clint says. “The average Disney princess is sixteen years old.”

“Ah.” Tony looks at Laura for help, but Clint’s wife just shakes her head, grinning.

“I mean, Merida is fine. She kicks ass. Takes names. She’s a typical rebellious teenager. Merida does Merida. But man, think of all those sixteen-year-old Disney princesses getting married at the end of the movie.”

“Ah,” Tony says again. Again, he looks at Laura, with an expression that says ‘ _Help!_ ’

But Clint isn’t finished. “You know how old Snow White is?”

“Young, I’m guessing?”

“She’s fourteen years old. _Fourteen_. She should have been in the eighth grade, not getting hitched to fully grown adult men she’s just met.”

“And that kiss that woke her up,” Natasha adds.

“Don’t get me started on that. A non-consensual kiss is Disney’s answer to _everything-_ ”

“We get it, honey.” Laura pats his shoulder with amused tolerance. “The moral of the story – all Disney princes are pedophiles waiting to happen.”

“You know, pedophilia is actually considered a kind of mental health disorder?” Natasha says, adding fuel to the fire as usual.

“Shame on you, Clint,” Tony says. “Have you been trivializing the plight of the mentally ill all these years?”

Tony and Natasha seem happy enough to team up to rib him, and yet the entire party, they’ve found one reason after another to avoid even _looking_ at each other.

When Tony volunteers to get more salsa for the cheesy flatbread, Clint says to Natasha, “Man, I hope you two sort out your baggage soon. You’ve been acting weird the whole day.”

Natasha sips her cold watermelon lemonade. Beads of condensation run down the sides of the glass. All the fast food has made Clint parched. Running around in the sunshine all day has made him even thirstier. He picks up his own glass of iced lemonade and drains it.

“Tony and I have been busy,” Natasha says.

Clint scoffs. “Busy not looking at each other, maybe.”

Natasha doesn’t answer. She seems to be looking at something in the distance. Clint follows her gaze to see Tony kneeling in front of Lila and Cooper, awkwardly trying to open the plastic wrapping of two ice lollies (orange with vanilla cream) one-handed, while his other hand juggles the salsa.

After a moment, Tony finally gets the wrappers open. He musses up Cooper’s sweaty mop of hair and tweaks Lila’s nose, no mockery or sarcasm at all in his demeanor, just a gentle playfulness. At that moment, Clint can almost imagine what Natasha sees in him.

The sight of Tony with Clint’s children seems to be painful to Natasha, and she looks away, swallowing. When she notices Clint watching her, her posture deliberately loosens – but the apathy is too contrived to be unfeigned. That’s the problem with knowing someone so well – it’s very difficult to put on a pretense in front of them, or even ignore it when they’re putting on a pretense, even though it’d be easier.

“We talked about our feelings,” Natasha tells him, making a face. “Now it’s weird.”

“Talking.” Clint exaggeratedly facepalms. “How could I have forgotten – the pitfall of every relationship.”

Natasha bops him none too gently on the head. “Quit it.”

“Man, I was a bit skeptical at first,” Clint goes on. “But now I’m convinced – you two emotionally stunted misfits are made for each other.”

Laura hits his chest with an open palm.

“We argue now.” Natasha grimaces. “Which is… new. We have the dumbest arguments – I can see myself doing it and I can’t stop it.”

“That’s what a normal relationship looks like, Nat. You think me and Laura never have dumb arguments?”

Laura winds her arms around Clint’s waist, and he drapes an arm over her shoulder. “Mostly, he gets into dumb arguments by himself and I just listen.”

“Honey, who was the one who went ten rounds with me last night about what type of peanut butter we should buy?”

“That’s because there’s a _right_ answer to that question – and it’s _chunky_.”

Clint narrows his eyes at his wife. “Don’t start that again. It’s peanut _butter_. There shouldn’t be chunks in _butter_.”

“I see I have interrupted a fascinating conversation,” Tony says, setting down the salsa. “What are we talking about?”

The elevator descends in silence.

“You know,” Steve remarks idly. “They used to play music.”

“Yeah.” Fury chuckles. He’s leaning back, hands braced against the elevator handrails. “My grandfather operated one of these things for forty years. My granddad worked in a nice building. He got good tips. He’d walk home every night, roll of ones stuffed in his lunch bag. He’d say ‘hi’, people would say ‘hi’ back. Time went on, neighborhood got rougher. He’d say ‘hi’, they’d say ‘keep on steppin’. Granddad got to gripping that lunch bag a little tighter.”

Steve raises his brows. “Did he ever get mugged?”

Fury laughs in an undertone. “Every week, some punk would say ‘what’s in the bag?’”

“What did he do?”

“He’d show ‘em – bunch of crumpled ones… and a loaded twenty-two Magnum.” Fury smiles, a slash of white set off starkly against his dark skin. “Granddad loved people – but he didn’t trust them very much.”

The elevator descends below the tree line, then plummets underground. There’s nothing but concrete for miles – until they reach an underground base. Through the glass walls of the elevator, Steve sees three gargantuan Helicarriers, each with too many gun ports to count, with fighter jets and smaller airships being loaded onto the airstrips. On the ground, he sees people scurrying around like ants, the headlights of SHIELD-issued jeeps moving between barricades – a mosaic of movement and tiny pinpricks of light.

“Yeah,” Fury says. “I know. They’re a little bigger than a twenty-two.”

Steve’s spine prickles with unease as they step off the elevator.

“Three next-generation Helicarriers synced to a network of targeting satellites,” Fury says, leading him closer.

“Launched from the Lemurian Star.”

“Once we get them in the air, they never need to come down,” Fury says proudly. He gestures to the humongous engines – arc reactors, the same kind of technology that makes Tony Stark’s chest glow blue, except these are the size of small mountains. “Continuous suborbital flight courtesy of our new repulsor engines.”

“Stark,” Steve says grimly.

A vein throbs at his temple and he feels a tension headache coming on. Knowing that Stark had a hand in building these weapons of mass destruction makes him _more_ distrustful of them, not less.

“Pierce did his thing and pulled in another favor. Stark practically reworked the entire engines once he got an up-close look at our old turbines. These new long-range precision guns can eliminate a thousand hostiles a minute. The satellites can read a terrorist’s DNA before he steps outside his spider hole.”

Fury turns, black leather trench coat flaring dramatically.

“Captain,” he says. “This is Project Ultron.”


	6. Chapter 6

The blonde in nurse scrubs barely descends the stairs when Clint can’t hold it in any longer. “You’re welcome to use my _washing machine_?” he says incredulously. Steve’s cheeks flush pink. “Your _washing machine_? That’s the best line you could come up with?”

“I panicked.”

“Obviously.” Clint shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly. “Man, you really need to get out more.” He pauses, turning his good ear to the door. And yep – that’s definitely classical music. “Did you leave a record on?” he asks.

He sees Steve go tense all over. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

They end up sneaking into the apartment through one of the windows. The lights are off and the air smells of old books. Steve hefts up his shield. Clint lays his hand lightly over his gun, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. They follow the music.

In the furthest, darkest corner of the living room, a figure sits in an armchair, listening to an old-fashioned vinyl record. Clint sees the eyepatch and relaxes.

“Nick, Christ,” Clint says. “I almost shot your dumb ass.”

The battle-readiness leaves Steve’s posture. He leans against the wall, shoulders slumping. “I don’t remember giving you a key,” he says in a tone of exasperation tinged with impatience.

“You really think I’d need one? My wife kicked me out.” Fury straightens in his seat, groaning.

Clint goes tense all over again at the carefully disguised pain in Fury’s voice. His instincts are telling him that something is wrong. When he inhales deeply, he detects something that smells like copper pennies.

Blood.

A small cold spot forms in Clint’s stomach.

Steve doesn’t seem to pick up on it. “Didn’t know you were married.”

“A lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“I know, Nick. That’s the problem.”

Very casually, Clint tugs on the string that turns on the table lamp. The light casts Nick’s face into harsh relief, and Clint realizes where the smell of blood is coming from – Fury is practically covered in it. His face looks like it’s been through a cheese grater, and he’s hunching over in a manner that suggests internal injuries.

Steve looks nonplussed. Nick holds up a hand, silently signaling them to be silent. He tugs the lamp cord, turning off the light and bathing his face back in dimness. He writes a text on his phone, turns the screen to show them:

_EARS EVERYWHERE_

Steve’s gaze scans over the apartment. Fury writes another text:

_SHIELD COMPROMISED_

The small cold spot in Clint’s gut grows larger and colder.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash.”

“Who else knows about your wife?” Steve asks.

Fury pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, clutching his side. His phone screen now reads: _US THREE_. “Just… my friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Steve says blandly.

“That’s up to you.”

Of course, with their typical luck, they’re attacked before they can get some damn answers.

Fury yells, back arching as someone starts shooting at them _through_ the wall. Steve crouches over Fury, bringing up his shield and dragging him out of the line of fire. Through the window blinds, Clint spies a flash of movement – moonlight reflecting off gleaming metal. In one smooth motion, he unholsters his gun and returns fire, ducking down to avoid the hail of retaliatory bullets.

By the time it’s safe to emerge, Clint sees the shooter retreating from the edge of the rooftop, disappearing from sight – moving so fast (superhumanly fast) that Clint knows he can’t catch up to him.

But someone else can.

Steve is putting pressure on Fury’s chest, his fingers already slick with blood. “I’ve got him, Cap,” Clint says, replacing Steve’s hands with his own and pressing down hard. “He’s getting away. Go!”

With one last glance at Fury, Steve goes. Shield positioned in front of him, he takes a running leap out of the window, sailing through the air and crashing through the window of the opposite building.

Fury is reaching for something inside his coat. Struggling, breathing growing more and more labored, he presses the object into Clint’s palm – it’s a gold-painted cross necklace. The cheap kind you can buy at a corner store for only a few dollars. The gold paint is already flaking off. It’s tacky with congealed blood.

“Don’t…” Fury’s breathing goes wet and gurgling – the kind of noises Clint associates with a punctured lung. “Trust _anyone_.”

They move Fury’s body onto a flat gurney, cover him from the chest down with a starched white sheet. His usually dark skin is a mite paler, tinged with grey. Purplish bruising and livid discoloration stand out starkly on his face.

Fury has always been a tall, physically imposing man. But in the absence of his bold demeanor, his indomitable will, and his ruthless pragmatism, he seems strangely shrunken and diminished.

Maria Hill steps into the morgue. “I need to take him,” she says, voice uncharacteristically quiet and choked off.

Natasha remains motionless at Fury’s side.

Clint and Tony exchange silent glances.

“Nat.” Clint squeezes her shoulder.

Without a single word passing her lips, Natasha lays a gentle hand on Fury’s forehead. Then, spinning on one heel, she storms out of the morgue, dashing a hand roughly underneath her eyes.

“Tasha!” Tony cries, going after her.

Clint and Steve linger, leaving at a slower pace. Clint spies Tony and Natasha at the end of the hallway, the former pulling the latter into an unspeakably tender embrace. Clint looks away, swallowing painfully, feeling like someone has reached into his chest and wrapped their fist around his heart.

He misses Laura.

Steve looks at him. “Did Fury say anything after I left?”

Clint looks at him for a moment, searchingly, thinking about Fury’s last words. But then again, Fury had gone to the apartment looking for _Steve_ –

“Yeah.” Clint lowers his voice. “He told me not to trust anyone. And he gave me this.”

He unzips his leather jacket and opens it. Inside, half-hanging out one of the pockets is the gold cross necklace Fury forced him to take. Clint shows Steve the cleverly hidden USB plug on one end of the cross. Over Steve’s shoulder, Clint spies Brock Rumlow marching with intent towards them, and he tucks the gold cross back out of sight.

“Cap, Barton,” Rumlow says. “They want you both back at SHIELD.”

Things escalate quickly.

Clint and Steve lie their butts off to Alexander Pierce, who sends the Rumlow’s STRIKE team to detain them – it culminates in an elevator fight and a breakout-slash-escape from the Triskelion.

In very short order, they’re declared persona non grata and fugitives of SHIELD.

They regroup at a public library. Clint plugs in the USB, scanning through the documents, audio files, and video recordings. His hands fly over the keyboard. “Most of these are encrypted,” he says. “I can’t access it without the key – probably Fury had it.”

“Can you crack the encryption?” Steve asks.

Clint shakes his head. “I’ll take too long. We need Natasha. Or Tony.” He moves the mouse cursor to the lone unencrypted file at the top of the list, double-clicking. “This is what Fury wanted us to see.”

It’s a map of someplace in New Jersey.

“Wheaton,” Steve says in the oddest tone Clint has ever heard from him.

Clint side-eyes him. “You know it?”

“I used to.”

Clint holds a finger to the touch-sensitive doorbell of Tony’s penthouse apartment. It’s fourteen seconds (Clint counts) before the door is flung open and he’s greeted by an Iron Man gauntlet aimed right between the eyes.

The moment Tony recognizes him, he lowers his arm, scowling and pressing a palm to the arc reactor glowing through his shirt.

“Jesus, Stark,” Clint says, willing his racing pulse to slow. “What the hell was that? I thought you were going to take my goddamn head off!”

“I didn’t know it was you! I thought it was-” Tony cuts himself off once he gets a good look at Clint, who’s caked head to toe in ash and covered in shallow abrasions.

Without another word, Tony opens the door wider and gestures for Clint to come in. Clint ducks beneath the other man’s arm. He must look truly horrendous because Tony doesn’t even make his usual sarcastic quips about hawks tracking dirt on the spotless floors.

Tony closes the door with a sharp snap, then turns to face Clint, hands on his hips. “Well?” he demands. “What the hell happened?”

“Where’s Nat?” Clint asks. “I don’t want to tell this story more than once.”

A vein is pulsing at Tony’s temple. “Where do you think she is? You and Rogers weren’t exactly subtle – getting yourselves branded number one and two on SHIELD’s shit list. Did you think she’d sit here quietly, twiddling her thumbs while Alexander Pierce heads a manhunt for you?”

“No, not really,” Clint admits.

“She’s out there!” Tony jabs a thumb in the general direction of the front door. “Looking for answers. Searching for you. Heck, _I’d_ be out there too… except someone needed to stay here in case you came looking for us.”

“Aw, Tony, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Barton, don’t be an ass. What’s going on?”

“Let’s wait for Natasha,” Clint insists stubbornly. “When’s her next check-in?”

“I have no idea. Natasha does Natasha,” Tony says tiredly. “As far as I’m concerned, no news is good news.” He jerks his chin to the kitchen. “If we’re waiting, probably best not to do it on an empty stomach. You hungry?”

“Starving.” Clint starts for the kitchen, but Tony throws out an arm to stop him. “Now what?”

“You’re a mess.” Tony wrinkles his nose at him. “Why do you smell like barbeque?”

Clint shrugs. “Flesh plus heat.”

“Ugh.” Tony grimaces. “Go get cleaned up.”

A shower and a fresh change of clothes later, Clint walks into the kitchen feeling much more human. Tony takes one look at him and scowls. “Barton, go put on a shirt.”

“I would, but the stuff you set out for me doesn’t fit.” Clint flexes his biceps pointedly. “They’re too small in the arms.”

“Yeah, I know you have buff arms. Don’t need to rub it in.” Tony rolls his eyes. “I got in touch with Natasha. She’s in the middle of looking into something – won’t tell me what it is, but she says she won’t be back for a while.” He’s cradling a mug of steaming hot coffee between his palms. The dark caffeinated liquid almost touches the brim. He doesn’t drink it, just turns it around and around. “She sends her love.”

Clint scoffs. “She did _not_ say that.”

“Fine. She told me to tell you that your moronic idiocy knows no bounds and that she hopes Lila and Cooper inherited Laura’s brains instead of yours.”

Clint grins fondly. “Atta, girl.”

“Paracetamol.” Tony slides a packet of generic pain pills across the table to him. “Best I could do. I’d offer you whiskey but…” He trails off, shrugging.

 _But Natasha helped Tony pour every single drop of alcohol in the penthouse down the sink months ago_ , Clint knows.

“But I need a clear head,” Clint says instead. “Thanks.” He pops four pills and swallows them dry. He figures that he has more immediate risks to consider than liver failure. His stomach makes a gurgling noise of protest. “Food?” he says hopefully.

“You want cornflakes or peanut butter bread?”

“Is the PB smooth?”

“Sorry to disappoint, buddy,” Tony says in mild amusement. “But this is now a chunky peanut butter only household.”

Clint droops, despondent. “Man, I never should have introduced you to Laura.”

He eats the cornflakes straight out of the cereal box. Tony gets out the bread (multi-grain and seed – Clint can see Laura’s influence there too) and slathers thick slices of it with chunky peanut butter.

“Is Rogers okay?” Tony asks.

“He’s lying low.” At Tony’s raised eyebrow, Clint elaborates. “He’s staying with a friend – Sam Wilson.”

“Rogers has _friends_?”

“Apparently they’re running buddies or something.” Clint lifts his shoulders briefly and drops them. “I didn’t ask for the details. We were a bit occupied at the moment. But he’s more recognizable than I am, so we agreed to split up – he’d lie low while I’d go and get the cavalry (that’s you, by the way, congratulations), then we’d meet up again at the rendezvous point.”

Tony is silent for a worryingly long moment. His eyes are wide and glassy, gaze fixed unblinkingly at thin air. He’s torn his peanut butter bread into a pile of shredded mush.

“Stark?” Clint snaps his fingers in front of the other man’s face, which seems to jolt him out of his trance. “Man, you need me to put on a shirt before I tell you anything?”

Tony meets his eyes only briefly before ducking his head and looking down at his undrunk coffee. “Start from the beginning,” he says. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Clint does. He tells him about Fury breaking into Steve’s apartment, about the sniper. Fury’s warning not to trust anyone and the USB he gave to Clint. The conversation with Pierce. The fight with the STRIKE team in the elevator and how Clint and Steve subsequently did a bunk. Camp Lehigh. Arnim Zola and HYDRA.

By the time Clint starts talking about the Winter Soldier, Tony has whitened alarmingly, burying his head in his hands.

“HYDRA had your parents assassinated, we’re pretty sure,” Clint says. “The Winter Soldier killed them. I’m sorry, Tony.”

Clint can’t imagine which one of his friends would take the news of HYDRA-inside-SHIELD the worst. Steve, who died trying to stop them then woke up seventy years in the future to find out that the very organization created by Peggy Carter was infiltrated by HYDRA all along. Tony, whose father was one of the founders, his arc reactor technology used to build the Helicarriers for Project Ultron. Or Natasha, who switched the KGB for HYDRA – one fascistic master for another.

Tony lifts his head from his hands. His dark eyes are tearless but burning with some unnamed emotion. “And the drive?” he says.

Clint drops the gold cross necklace into the other man’s palm. “Can you get us in?” he asks.

“Clint, you’re talking to _me_.”

“Right.” Clint rolls his eyes. “Stupid question.” He nods at the other man’s undrunk coffee. “Are you going to drink that?”

“It’s gone cold.”

“It’s a waste of good coffee.” Clint takes the coffee from Tony’s unresisting fingers and downs the contents in one gulp – cold and bitter and unsweetened, with a strange aftertaste lingering at the back of his tongue.

Tony looks away from him, plugging in the drive to a hidden port. A blue holographic screen shimmers into existence.

“This will only take a few minutes,” Tony says. “And in the meantime… Clint?”

“Yep?”

“Do me a favor and put on a shirt.”

Normally, Clint would refuse just on principle, but it _is_ getting cold and he feels goosebumps rising on his chest and back. He roots through Tony’s closet and emerges with a tank top, shrugging it on. He’s just about to leave when he spies something on the bureau.

It’s Natasha’s phone.

Time seems to slow. Clint’s mind is sluggish. The coverlet is thrown over a lumpy mass on the bed. Clint yanks off the quilt, revealing a handful of guns and taser discs, a roll of garrote wire, the Widow’s Bites, and a pair of electroshock batons – Natasha’s kit.

Which means she never left the apartment – not willingly.

 _Don’t trust anyone_ , Fury said. And Clint- Clint took it to mean Pierce, it never even occurred to him –

The realization comes together in his mind, as cold and as sharp as an icicle.

There are sudden running footsteps and Tony bursts into the room. His gaze first goes to the uncovered gear spread out over the bed, then to Clint. Clint’s hand wraps itself around the handle of one of Natasha’s guns –

Then his knees buckle. The gun slips from his suddenly numb fingers. His arms and legs lose feeling and go limp.

“It was in the coffee,” Tony says. His eyes are dark and wet and sad.

Rushing darkness. And then nothing.

“That was well done,” Pierce says approvingly.

Tony doesn’t respond. His mind replays the memories on a loop – Clint’s face scrubbed blank with shock, Natasha stumbling trustingly into his arms saying _“Tony, I think I’ve been poisoned”_.

Neither of them saw it coming. Natasha and Clint, who never let their guards down, who didn’t trust anyone. They trusted him.

He feels sick with self-loathing.

Rumlow grunts. “What about Rogers?”

“He’ll come looking for them,” Tony says dully. “He’ll know something’s wrong when he finds the apartment empty. At that point, he’ll either assume we’ve been captured, or that either me or Natasha (or both of us) were turned.”

Rumlow sneers at him. “Not planning on sticking around for the fallout, Stark?”

“I’m not wild about confronting an angry super soldier one-on-one. Anyone who does is an _idiot_ , Rumlow.”

Rumlow snarls and starts forward.

“Rumlow!” Pierce says sharply.

Rumlow subsides, teeth still bared. Tony eyes him coolly.

“You better watch your back, Stark,” Rumlow warns. “Pierce won’t be around to baby you forever.”

“I only take orders from one man around here, Rumlow,” Tony says evenly. “In case you haven’t gotten the memo, let me spell it out for you – _It’s. Not. You._ ”

The muscles on Rumlow’s neck stand out starkly. He seems on the verge of throwing a punch. Tony wishes he would. It would be the perfect justification to finally blow a hole in Rumlow’s head. Pierce wouldn’t even reprimand Tony for it – Rumlow is trying Pierce’s patience as it is.

“Rumlow, walk it off!” Pierce orders. Rumlow complies, if reluctantly. Pierce shakes his head disapprovingly. “Tony, you really shouldn’t bait him.” His voice is edged with a warning.

Tony pulls out his phone. “Sam Wilson – former US Air Force pararescue airman. Test pilot for the EXO-7 Falcon program. I’ve sent you his address. According to Barton, that’s where Rogers will be hiding out.” He looks at Pierce curiously. “Who are you sending after him? Not the STRIKE team.”

“No,” Pierce agrees quietly. “Not the STRIKE team. One embarrassment is enough. We need a super-soldier to kill a super-soldier.” He meets Tony’s eyes. “We need the Asset.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! *makes jazz hands*
> 
> Wow, 3K. I really have to learn to plan my chapter lengths better.
> 
> Remember to kudos!
> 
> XD


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't reply to a single comment last chapter, because I was so worried about spoiling this chapter.
> 
> I would have just replied with a string of unbroken zipper-mouth emojis anyway.
> 
> XD
> 
> Enjoy!

The sounds of a buzzer and a door sliding open make Clint still in his restless pacing. Natasha, sitting cross-legged on her bunk, looks up. As their visitor approaches, the agents assigned to guard their cell give quiet, respectful greetings.

It’s Alexander Pierce – the Head of HYDRA. But Clint’s eyes zero in on the person trailing behind him. Natasha becomes very, very still.

Rage burns through Clint – a hatred more intense and powerful than any emotion he’s ever felt in his life. Natasha trusted Tony. _Clint_ trusted him. And Stark repaid that trust with lies and betrayal – by stabbing them in the back and twisting the knife.

 _Look at me_ , Clint thinks, glaring at Stark, who keeps his eyes fixed on the back of Pierce’s head. _Have the guts to look us in the face you two-faced, backstabbing, traitorous –_

 __“Well,” Pierce sighs. “This has been quite a mess, hasn’t it?”

Pierce gives a dismissive wave, and Stark steps back obediently. The easy capitulation… the blatant _submission_ is a brief stab of wrongness, soon swallowed up by the haze of rage. In the time Clint knew him, Stark never acted meek or deferring to anybody.

It’s yet more proof that Clint never knew Stark at all.

“Where is Captain Rogers?” Pierce asks. “What is he planning?”

Natasha levers herself up. “You don’t have him,” she says, voice soft in realization. “Or you wouldn’t be here, asking about his plans. He escaped.”

“Not for long.” Pierce sighs again and shakes his head. “Clint, it really brings me no pleasure to say this, but we can either do this the easy way-”

“Or the hard way,” Clint drawls. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just get on with it. Fair warning though, my pain threshold is less of a threshold and more of a large atrium, so you have your work cut out.”

“We’ll get it out of you one way or another,” Pierce says. “In time.”

“Time you don’t have.” Clint meets his gaze challengingly. “And I will endure a lot of pain for a very long time before I give up the information that’s keeping us alive. How long have you got?”

“Oh, no, Clint,” Pierce says. “Hurting _you_ … we know that won’t get us anywhere.”

It’s like an explosion in his head. Clint’s vision whites out.

Oh, God. Laura. His _kids_.

What will happen to Laura? To Lila and Cooper?

What has _already_ happened to them?

Clint squeezes his eyes shut as his imagination runs wild. The images bubble up to the front of his mind: Laura beaten and bleeding and suffering, being tortured for secrets that Clint never told her. Lila and Cooper, locked in a bare cell just like this one, starving and frightened and crying, tiny bodies bruised, calling out for their mom and dad –

“Shame about Phil Coulson,” Pierce says.

Clint’s eyes snap open. “ _What?_ ”

“I’ve always liked Phil,” Pierce says, almost ruminatingly. “He’s practical. Competent. Professional. He made a good second-in-command for Nick. I’d also wager that you value his life a lot more than you do yours. He was your handler, wasn’t he? Your mentor?”

Clint can’t help himself – he looks at Tony, still standing behind Pierce. And for the first time since he stepped into the room, Tony meets his gaze. Tony’s eyes are like glass beads, reflecting back whatever it is the watcher wants to see – Clint can’t read him. The question Clint so desperately wants to ask stays locked behind his teeth.

Tony gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. And Clint’s jaw almost slackens with relief.

_He didn’t tell them._

Natasha, always quicker on the uptake, steps in before Clint can give himself away. “Then you’re going to have to kill all three of us,” she says.

Clint lets himself meet Pierce’s eyes, lets a smirk play around his mouth, feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The relief filling his chest is like a tangible thing. Because he has nothing to lose. HYDRA has no idea his family even exists.

They’re still safe.

“Project Ultron will go ahead,” Pierce says. His expression is foul. “Rogers is on the run. Injured. Friendless. Outnumbered. Outgunned. Do you really think he has any chance of stopping us?”

“Haven’t you underestimated him enough times already?” Natasha says quietly.

Pierce says nothing, just sneers and leaves. Stark sweeps after him without so much as a second glance at either of them.

As soon as they’re gone, Clint feels his knees give out. He collapses onto the bunk, fingers gripping the covers so hard the fabric tears. He feels Natasha’s fingernails digging into his arm, hard enough to draw blood, and lets the pain center him.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks.

“Are you?” Clint counters.

“ _-SHIELD is not what we thought it was, it's been taken over by HYDRA. Alexander Pierce is their leader. The STRIKE and Ultron crew are HYDRA as well. I don't know how many more, but I know they're in the building. They could be standing right next to you. They almost have what they want: absolute control-_ ”

Clint looks at Natasha even as Steve goes on, his voice ringing through the building. “You think he practices this stuff in front of a mirror first?” Clint asks, his body buzzing with pent-up energy and smugness. He wishes he could be there to see Alexander Pierce’s face.

Natasha doesn’t get a chance to reply. Because just then the cell wall explodes inwards.

Clint stumbles, his back slamming hard against the frame of the bunk beds, jarring his hip. He inhales a mouthful of smoke and concrete dust. Coughing, one hand coming up to cover his face, he squints through the hazy air to see that a hole has been blown clean through the wall of the cell.

On the other side of that hole, holding a gun almost as big as he is, is Phil Coulson.

“Sorry I’m late,” Coulson says mildly. “I got a little held up.” He gestures to the small pile of bodies behind him – some of them only unconscious, some of them not.

“And what sort of time do you call this?” Natasha says.

“I also come bearing gifts,” Coulson adds. He tosses a sack of weapons at their feet.

“Well,” Clint says seriously. “When all else fails, at least you know you can still _buy_ our love, Phil.”

“Coulson,” Natasha says, strapping knives and guns to her hips, thighs, arms. “I could kiss you.”

“Maybe later,” Coulson deadpans. “You can kiss me too, Clint.”

“I’m grateful.” Clint tests the give of the bowstring, strapping his quiver of specialized arrows to his back. “But not _that_ grateful. Maybe if you’d brought a tank-”

There’s the sound of heavy booted feet running towards them.

“Would you like the honors?” Coulson sweeps his arm out, like a Victorian gentleman ushering a lady indoors.

HYDRA agents flood the hallway. The squad leader yells, “Don’t move!”

“Yeah,” Clint says to him sarcastically. “Because that always works.”

His bow has limited use during a close-quarters fight. He gets in close. The element of surprise is on his side and he manages to get under the HYDRA agent’s guard, driving his elbow into his gut. The HYDRA agent goes down with an “oomph”. Natasha and Coulson open fire on the rest of the squad, covering him.

Clint grabs the gun of the nearest HYDRA goon (Goon 2, he decides to call him) and slams the weapon against his head. Goon 2’s grip loosens, and Clint whips the gun across Goon 3’s face, then bodily swings Goon 2 like he would a club, knocking him into Goon 3. Both goons go down.

He drives a knee into Goon 4’s stomach, then slams it against the agent’s chin. Goon 4’s head snaps back with an audible crack, and he collapses, neck twisted at a grotesque angle. Clint put enough force into that strike to break the neck.

Goon 5 decides he wants to take a turn too. But Clint drives one end of his bow into the agent’s stomach, then kicks him hard in the exact same spot. Goon 5 is sent flying. In one smooth motion, Clint reaches back to his quiver, draws an arrow, and nocks it.

The arrowhead sinks into Goon 5’s temple.

Clint turns just in time to see Natasha nail a HYDRA agent in the balls, then shoot him in the head.

The gunfire stops. Clint and Natasha are surrounded by a sea of bodies.

Coulson watches them placidly a little further down the hallway. His giant gun is propped up casually against the wall. “Got it out of your systems?” he asks blandly.

“So what’s the plan?” Natasha asks. “Please tell me Steve has a plan.”

“Steve has a plan,” Coulson says evenly.

“And?” Clint says.

“Cap and Falcon will stop the Helicarriers,” Coulson says. “The three of us stop Pierce.”

A bow in his hand and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back, Natasha and Coulson fighting at his back – It almost makes Clint think nostalgically of the good old days. Back when he and Natasha were Strike Team Delta instead of part of the Avengers, and Coulson was the only handler competent enough (or crazy enough, depending on who you ask) to take them on.

But the stakes are so much higher now.

Coulson parks himself just around the tight corner of the stairwell and peppers the air with gunfire. Below them, Clint hears HYDRA agents yelling as bullets meet flesh.

“The Council,” Coulson reminds them, sliding a fresh magazine into his gun. “Hurry.”

Clint and Natasha race up the stairs. At the top landing, they press themselves against the wall and ease the door to the council room ajar. Peering through the gap, Clint sees the World Security Council being forced to their knees at gunpoint, hands behind their heads. Alexander Pierce stands in front of them, holding court. Tony Stark flanks him, staring vacantly into a flute of celebratory champagne.

“Five agents,” Clint says lowly. “I get the two on the left.”

Natasha nods.

Clint is halfway across the room before any of the agents even notice his presence. He hooks his bow around the neck of one agent. Using the HYDRA agent as a fulcrum, Clint utilizes his momentum and delivers a powerful kick to the second HYDRA agent’s chest. Goon 1 lashes out at him, but Clint dodges easily and clubs him in the face with his bow, then he nails Goon 2 in the balls.

Natasha’s three opponents are already downed. She’s rising to her feet now with a feline, fluid grace, aiming her gun point-blank at Alexander Pierce’s head. Her finger tightens on the trigger.

Except then Stark is stepping in front of Pierce, directly between him and the barrel of Natasha’s gun. Even with every HYDRA agent in the room down for the count, Pierce still watches the proceedings with a highly amused expression on his face.

Natasha’s finger stills.

“If I have to kill you to get to Pierce, Tony, I will.” Natasha’s voice is dangerously soft, like a knife sheathed in silk. “I don’t want to, but I will.”

Stark meets her gaze head-on. “Not really.”

Natasha moves to jab muzzle against his forehead, but the gun seems to hit thin air. “Wait.” She taps the muzzle of her gun against what seems to be an invisible barrier that ripples over Stark’s body. “Camouflage. Your armor has camouflage _that_ extensive?”

“Put the gun away and we’ll talk,” Stark says.

“Put the gun away?” Natasha’s voice shakes with rage. “You’re wearing a _tank_.”

“Oh, dear.” Pierce is staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Is that Captain Rogers?”

Everyone turns to look. A tiny speck plummets from one of the Helicarriers – a speck dressed in blue and white. Clint’s stomach feels like it’s falling as well – hurtling down two thousand feet, hitting the surface of the Potomac with bone-shattering force, then sinking to the bottom of the water.

“Well,” Pierce says, unperturbed. “So much for him.”

Pierce has backed just slightly out of Stark’s protective reach. Clint sees an opening, lunges forward, wraps a muscled arm around Pierce’s neck, and digs a knife underneath his chin, opening a shallow cut at his throat. Blood runs down Pierce’s front, staining his perfectly pressed suit.

“Tell us how to stop Ultron,” Clint growls.

“You can’t,” Pierce says. “It’s too late to stop it.”

The sound of many hurried booted footsteps coming from the stairwell is the only warning before the STRIKE team bursts into the room. Rumlow is half-dragging Coulson, who is unarmed and obviously injured, unable to even hold himself upright as blood drips from his mouth down his chin.

Rumlow presses a gun to the back of Coulson’s head, shaking him like a ragdoll. “Put down your weapons,” he snarls. “Or I will blow a hole in his skull.”

“Damn you, Tony!” Natasha says. She fires two shots point-blank at Stark’s face, but the bullets merely ricochet off the armor with cheerful _pings_.

“Cloaked armor, I told you. Waste of good bullets.” Stark grimaces. “Sit down. Be civilized.”

Natasha spits at him. “Bastard!”

“My parents were married, actually.”

Rumlow doesn’t even look at them. He seems supremely unconcerned about Stark, keeping his eyes glued to Clint and Pierce. Clint wants, more than anything, to give Pierce a red smile from ear to ear. But Coulson would die, and the STRIKE team outnumbers them ten to one. Shaking with barely leashed violence, Clint lets Pierce go.

They’re forced to their knees, Natasha cursing in Russian all the while. She keeps up an impressive torrent of filth involving her sex life with Stark, not to mention the many and varied ways Stark could bend over and take it from Pierce in the ass.

Pierce, at least, seems to find it amusing. “Trouble in paradise?” he asks Stark. “I see the honeymoon period didn’t last very long.”

“ _This is Charlie Carrier. Sixty-five seconds to satellite link. Targeting grid engaged. Lowering weapons array now._ ”

Pierce moves to stand in front of Coulson, who’s slumped on his knees and has to crane his head up to look at him. “It didn’t have to be like this, Phil. Our enemies are your enemies – Disorder. War. It’s just a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow, or an EMP fries Chicago. Diplomacy? Holding action. A band-aid. I can bring order to the lives of seven billion people by sacrificing twenty million. It’s a numbers game. Ultron is a suit of armor around the world.”

Coulson acts like Pierce hasn’t said a thing. In fact, his gaze slides right off the Secretary of Defense and lands on Stark. Stark meets Coulson’s gaze unflinchingly.

“You know this is wrong, Stark.” More blood bubbles from his mouth. “Whatever Pierce has on you, however he’s making you do this, it’s not too late to do the right thing.”

“It’s already too late,” Stark says.

“ _We’ve reached three thousand feet. Sat link coming online now. Algorithm deployed_.”

Clint watches, blood roaring in his ears, as the holographic screen shows red targets appearing at the Triskelion, Washington, the White House, the Pentagon. The figures climb higher and higher, stopping at more than seven hundred thousand.

 _Lila, Cooper,_ he thinks. _Laura, I’m so sorry._

“ _Target saturation reached. All targets assigned._ ”

“Are you familiar with the Bible, Secretary Pierce?” Stark asks.

Pierce gives him a strange look. “I’m not religious.”

“No, I didn’t think you were.” A queer little smile plays at Stark’s mouth. “There’s a passage in the Gospel of Matthew that I think is worth a read.”

“I never thought _you_ of all people would start preaching to me.”

“ _Firing in three, two, one-_ ”

Clint’s eyes are shut, his head bowed. The silence is so absolute, so oppressive, that for a moment Clint really thinks that he’s died, that his death was so sudden and painless that he didn’t even feel it.

“Where are the targets?” Pierce demands suddenly.

Clint’s eyes snap open. On the holographic screen, the map has been wiped clean. The rush of relief makes him sway.

“I can save twenty million innocent lives by sacrificing thirty thousand HYDRA agents,” Stark says. Every eye in the room turns to him, but he keeps his gaze on Alexander Pierce. “Like you said, isn’t it? It’s just a numbers game.”

“Stark, what have you done?” Pierce demands angrily.

Stark lifts his chin. The look in his eyes is haughty and cold and ruthless. And something else, an emotion Clint has never seen him wear before – a bone-deep hatred and loathing, a sort of contemptuous revulsion, a merciless desire to see someone _dead_.

“Didn’t you learn anything from the Ten Rings?” Stark asks softly.

Red targets rapidly reappear on the map, scattered all over the continent. Most of them seem to be concentrated at the Triskelion itself, at various SHIELD bases. Comprehension dawns, one by one, on everyone in the room.

“What have you done?” Pierce asks again, this time in a tone of horror instead of anger.

“That paragraph from the Bible,” Stark says. “ _Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In plain English:  
> Tony: Live by the Sword, Die by the Sword.
> 
> Alternatively:  
> Tony: You reap what you sow, buddy.
> 
> Next chapter: Explanation. Promise will all make sense. No full sentences. Sleep-deprived.
> 
> Don't forget to kudos & comment.


	8. Chapter 8

_Fury lets the necklace dangle from his fingers, the cross pendant swaying back and forth on its thin gleaming chain. “Why tell me only now? Attack of the conscience?” he asks somewhat mockingly._

_“Pierce wants you gone,” Tony says bluntly. “He’ll send someone to assassinate you. Soon. Before Project Ultron’s scheduled launch date.”_

_“Then why save me? You’ve stood by and did nothing while he’s ordered the deaths of others.”_

_“Because I am going to raze HYDRA to the ground, and I am going to use Ultron to do it,” Tony says softly. “By the time I’m done, what’s left of SHIELD will need you to sweep in and pick up the pieces. And for that, you need to be alive.”_

_“And Pierce?”_

_“Until I get back what he took from me, no one gets to kill him. You don’t get to kill him. SHIELD doesn’t get to kill him. Only **I** get to kill him. Capeesh?”_

_“And you want me to do what, exactly? Sit back and twiddle my thumbs?”_

_“I need Pierce occupied. Distract him. Use Rogers to do it if you want to. That guy is like a rampaging bull in a china shop. At least this way he’ll be useful for something.”_

_Fury watches him with his single unblinking eye. “What are you planning, Stark?” he asks._

_“I’m going to remind Pierce about why they call me the Merchant of Death,” Tony says. “ **Gently** remind him.”_

_He sets down the bouquet of pink and red carnations, traces the letters of the names carved into the memorial._

**_I miss you_ ** _, he thinks fiercely. **Every day I miss you.**_

_“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Fury asks suddenly. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, the only feasible reason why Tony would let himself be collared and leashed like this._

_“Of course, they are,” Tony says. “You think I’d be this functional if they **weren’t**?”_

The smell is the worst thing.

Like overcooked meat and burnt hair. Natasha doesn’t think she’ll ever look at Sunday roast the same way again. Just looking at what’s left of Pierce and the STRIKE team scattered all around them – bits and pieces of bodies and limbs, lumps of flesh charred to blackness. It’s one of the most gruesome things she’s ever seen – makes her stomach turn and triggers her gag reflex.

Every HYDRA agent in the building has been reduced to this. Every HYDRA agent in three thousand miles has been barbequed. Relief and horror battle for dominance in Natasha’s head.

“Councilmen. Councilwoman Hawley,” Tony says conversationally. “You might want to take off those security badges – they’re armed.”

Most of the WSC members don’t seem to hear him over their own retching. Councilwoman Hawley, green in the face but holding it together admirably, rips off her badge and flings it as far away from herself as possible.

“Ultron,” Tony says. “I’ve narrowed the search down to somewhere in Pennsylvania. I want them found.”

“What are you looking for?” Natasha asks.

He doesn’t reply to her.

Coulson makes a faint noise of pain, and Natasha refocuses on him. The white bandages she’s pressing down on his upper arm are already soaked through with blood. Coulson winces in obvious agony but otherwise makes no more noise as Clint ties a tourniquet at Coulson’s shoulder.

“ _I have a location_ ,” Ultron says. Unlike JARVIS’s cultured British accent, Ultron’s voice is a deep rumbling baritone, like rocks scraping against each other – programmed to sound menacing and threatening instead of calming and reassuring.

Tony leans forward eagerly. His eyes gleam feverishly. “Where are they?”

“ _Scranton_ ,” Ultron rumbles. “ _There was an unusually large concentration of targets at the Lackawanna River base_.”

“Then that’s where HYDRA is keeping them.” Tony’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “Let’s see if we can have a visual inside.”

A gun lies discarded on the soot-smeared floor a few feet away. Very carefully, after making sure Tony isn’t watching, Natasha picks it up. She holds the gun in her hand, angled out of Tony’s line of sight, and meets Clint’s eyes, finding him equally tense, both of them waiting to see what Tony does next.

With unlimited control over Project Ultron, a possibly hostile and unpredictable AI at his disposal, and enough firepower to completely wipe out a medium-sized country –

The holographic screen flickers and changes to a CCTV feed of the inside of a cell – four bare walls, a functional toilet, bunk beds with hospital corners and the frames bolted down. There are three cell occupants, all painfully thin: a redheaded woman and two men – one dark-skinned, the other stocky with his arm around the redhead. The dark-skinned man has his ear pressed against the door to the cell, while the other two stand back.

Natasha doesn’t recognize them off the top of her head, although they seem naggingly familiar. Clint, too, wears an expression of vague and bemused recognition.

But a small “oh” escapes Phil. “So that’s how they got to him,” he says quietly.

Tony’s eyes are a wild mix of emotions. He holds up his phone. His hand is shaking. “Hey,” he says. “I found you.”

The three cellmates look up at the sound of his voice. “ _Tones?_ ” the dark-skinned man says. The redheaded woman lets out a cry, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Hey, Rhodey.” Tony is crying, not even trying to hide it. Tears fall thick and fast down his face. “Pep. Hap. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Natasha’s pilfered gun slips from suddenly limp fingers, hitting the floor with a clatter. Clint’s eyes are wide with shock. Coulson just looks sad.

The stocky man – Hogan – spins until he’s looking up at the CCTV. “ _Hey, boss_ ,” he says, voice cracking.

“ _Tony_ ,” Potts gasps, clutching her chest. “ _Tony, where are you?_ ”

“I’m coming to get you right now-”

“ _Tony, we heard explosions_ ,” Rhodes says. “ _What happened?_ ”

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain. Just-” Tony’s voice breaks. He covers his mouth with his hand. “I’ll see you guys soon, okay?” he says through his fingers. “Just stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”

Colonel Rhodes looks wryly around the cell. “ _Well, we’re not going anywhere_.”

“ _It’s good to hear your voice, boss_ ,” Hogan says with quiet sincerity.

Tony’s breath catches painfully. “You too, Hap.”

He sets down his phone. The holo-screen changes again, this time to a satellite view of the Potomac River. There’s a blinking red dot coming closer and closer to Theodore Roosevelt Island. Through the empty space where the glass wall used to be, a few jaggedly sharp pieces still clinging to the frames, they can see the unmarked chopper approaching, hear the thumping of its rotor blades.

Tony looks at Natasha only for a moment before his gaze slides sideways to Phil. “You might want to freshen yourself up. We’re having company.”

Coulson’s already pallid complexion whitens even further as the chopper touches down on the helipad and a leather-clad figure steps out, black trench coat billowing theatrically behind him. One arm is strapped to his chest in a sling, the left sleeve of his leather coat empty and dangling. With the sun against his back, he strikes a formidable profile.

“This is gentle?” Nick Fury says to Tony.

“Gentle is subjective.” Tony shrugs. “Congratulations on your promotion, I guess.”

“You were dead,” Coulson says to Fury.

“Almost, but not quite. Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, one hell of a headache…”

“Don’t forget your collapsed lung,” Tony reminds him.

Fury rolls his single eye at him. “Oh, let’s not forget that. Otherwise, I’m good.”

“They cut you open,” Natasha says hoarsely. “Your heart stopped.”

“Tetrodotoxin B. Slows the pulse to one beat per minute. Dr. Bruce Banner developed it for stress.” Fury’s lips twist wryly. “Didn’t work so great for him, but we found a use for it.”

“Why all the secrecy?” Clint demands, looking between Fury and Tony. The question could be meant for either of them. He’s scowling something fierce. “Why didn’t you fuckers just _tell_ us?”

“Can’t kill you if you’re already dead,” Fury answers.

Tony reaches underneath the collar of his shirt and pulls out his gold cross necklace – the one he’s been wearing on and off for a while now. Natasha never pushed for answers about it, assuming it has some sort of sentimental value. Fury holds out his palm, and Tony drops the necklace into it. The simple action makes Clint inhale sharply.

“Are we done?” Tony asks.

“We’re done,” Fury says.

Tony turns to leave but hesitates at the doors, half-turning to Natasha and Clint. For a moment, he seems about to say something – a brief reassurance or maybe a promise of an explanation – then he purses his lips and turns away. Stepping casually off the roof, he soars off, armor still in camouflage mode.

“He looks like a middle-aged Superman,” Clint grumbles.

“Coulson, we have our work cut out for us,” Fury says briskly. “People have dropped dead in the White House and the Pentagon. We need to convince them that this wasn’t a terrorist attack or an alien invasion. Then we probably need to stop the US government from arresting Stark. And someone needs to fish Captain Rogers out from the Potomac.”

_“What do they want from you, Tony?” Rhodey asks, fear thick in his voice. “What are they asking you to do?”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” Tony insists. The cold screen of the phone chills his cheek. “I’ll see you again. I’ll find you. You and Pepper and Happy. Wherever they hide you, however long it takes me, I promise you, **I will find you**.”_

_“Tones,” Rhodey says._

_“Tell Pepper and Happy I love them.”_

_He hands the phone to Pierce, careful not to touch the older man’s skin. Pierce tucks the phone into a glassine bag, seals it off. “Well?” he says. Smug. Confident in his victory._

_“I’ll do it,” Tony says._

**_I will tear down HYDRA brick by brick_ ** _, he seethes._

Steve rests a hand on the rough pebbly surface of the tombstone, head bowed in grief and eyes stinging.

_IN MEMORY OF_

_JAMES B. BARNES_

Tony Stark stands next to him in respectful silence, a thick old-fashioned paper file tucked underneath his arm. When Steve manages to gather his composure after several long moments, Stark hands him the file.

Opening it, he’s immediately greeted with a picture – unmistakably Bucky, and at the same time still drastically different from the man who was Steve’s best friend. His face is washed in sterile cold blue light. His expression is unanimated, the way it wouldn’t be if he was simply asleep. His angled brows cast dark shadows over his closed eyes. He’s been frozen, skin coated with a layer of frost. His lank hair is like dark curtains framing his face. The combination makes him look ghoulish. A well-preserved, handsome corpse.

Steve looks over at the man standing silently next to him, the lengths Stark went to to get his best friends out of HYDRA’s grasp fresh in his mind. “Everyone else is telling me it’s best to let him go,” Steve says. “But not you, right?”

“No, not me.”

At the very top of the file contents are several thin sheets of paper stapled together, printed with rows of names. One of them catches Steve’s eye: _Howard Anthony Walter Stark_.

And right beneath that: _Maria Collins Carbonell-Stark._

Steve is too stunned to be angry. “Why did you give me this?”

“It’s not for you. It’s for him.”

Okay. _Now_ Steve is angry. “And you think it’ll help, will it? Giving him a list of his victims?”

Stark shrugs, unbothered by his anger. “You don’t have to show it to him. But if he wants to know, I don’t think you should hide it from him.”

The utter gall of –

“Do you blame him?” Steve asks in a tightly controlled voice.

Stark shrugs again. “I’ve killed more people in ten minutes than your brainwashed bestie has in seventy years. The difference is that _I_ was in my right mind when I did it. And I’d do it again.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Does it matter?” Stark asks, frowning. “Even if I wanted revenge, what can I do to Barnes that HYDRA hasn’t done to him a thousand times before?”

“Shh, Auntie Nat!” Lila is bent diligently over her drawing pad, making something with her watercolors, glue, and pieces of dried spaghetti. “I’m trying to concentrate! I’m making superhero art.”

Natasha squints at the drawing pad – the pieces of dried spaghetti have been glued to vaguely resemble the shapes of two humanoid figures. Lila is painting one yellow. The other one has been painted grey.

Who’s grey and yellow?

Lila finishes her art and sets down her paintbrushes. Peering at her masterpiece, she nods decisively. “Look, Auntie Nat! It’s Iron Man and War Machine, can you tell?”

Natasha forces a smile. “So it is.”

“Dad said I can give it to Uncle Tony next time he comes to visit!” Lila says sunnily, unaware of the emotions going off like fireworks in Natasha’s chest.

Clint, who’s just returned from the kitchen with their lunches, freezes like a cornered rabbit. Natasha gives him a sharp look. “Did he now?” she says.

“Uncle Tony’s two best friends are getting married, do you know?” Lila continues to chatter, blissfully oblivious to the rising tension between the two adults. “Uncle Tony’s been very busy helping Miss Pepper choose the cake and the dress and the flowers, and that’s why he hasn’t visited for so long.”

Lila runs off to show Cooper and Laura her spaghetti art. Clint sets down the bowl of cold salad – chicken and green veggies tossed with sunflower oil – and takes the seat next to Natasha. She looks down at her mug of hot water with lemon and takes a bracing gulp of the sour drink, wishing for something stronger.

“So… Pepper’s getting married,” she says. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Hogan,” he says. “Tony’s the Best Man and Rhodes is the Man of Honor. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I forgot.”

“And you’ve forgiven him?”

“I want to,” he admits. “Sometimes I’m still so furious at him… but then I think about what I’d have done if it was me. If I was the one Pierce had gone after... if HYDRA had found out about Laura and Lila and Cooper… I know I’d do just about anything if it meant keeping them safe.”

She exhales shakily. “You make it sound so simple.”

Natasha doesn’t let many people in. Clint – and his family by extension – is the first exception. Tony is the second. It was easy for Tony to fool her because she wanted to be fooled, wanted to trust him. And it’s why his betrayal hurt her so deeply, even if she tries not to show it.

“Will you ever forgive him?” he asks.

“I want to,” she says. “I’m trying.”

Flowers – cheerful yellow, rosy pink, and blood-red – hang from old-fashioned wall-mounted sconces. Tony is already sitting at one of the café’s outdoor tables, shielded from the sun by a large blue umbrella. Natasha stands on the sidewalk, deliberately just out of his line of sight, and takes a moment just to observe him.

Tony looks healthy, flushed from the heat. His dark eyes are vibrant and lively, and the shadows beneath them are gone. He’s more handsome than ever. More human.

He doesn’t look like a wreck. Actually, he looks… _happy_. Natasha realizes she’s never seen Tony happy before. She’s seen him when he was content and relaxed, but there was always an underlying careworn strain to his features. Now he looks genuinely happy, buoyant and carefree, almost glowing with it.

When he catches sight of her, she catalogs every single emotion that cycles across his face – and that’s new too. She’s always had trouble reading him. But now the defensive casing he wears like another armor is gone, and he wears his emotions visibly and unashamedly.

“Hey,” Tony says. His arm is resting on the table, palm-up.

Natasha offers him a watery smile. “Hey.” She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to kudos!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> XOXO


End file.
